


Devil That You Know

by pikachumaniac



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-10 15:33:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3295586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pikachumaniac/pseuds/pikachumaniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Silva draws the blade along the skin of his throat to the line of his jaw, never cutting through but leaving a trail of fire that Q is certain will consume him whole.</i>
</p><p>In which Q is an intrepid journalist with a deadline to meet, a thorn in New Scotland Yard’s side, and the number one target of London’s most dangerous serial killer. One of these things is a bit more serious than the others, but it’s not the one that it should be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [migraine_Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/migraine_Sky/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [bondvillainspromptmeme](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/bondvillainspromptmeme) collection. 



> Many thanks to Fishwrites, ReadByRain15, and Isanah for your invaluable help on this story. I couldn’t have done it without you!
> 
> For migraine_Sky, for the lovely banner art but primarily for the original prompt. All of this is your fault, so I hope you enjoy it. :)

* * *

         Q wakes up to find himself tied to a bed. He quickly comes to the following three conclusions:

  1.        He is not alone, as there is a man holding a terrifyingly large knife sitting not so far away.
  2.        His editor is going to be very irritated at him, as he is for sure going to be missing his deadline.
  3.        The bloodstains are going to be a pain to get out of the silk sheets.



  _Shit_.

* * *

~ 36 hours prior ~

 

        “What are you doing here?”

        Q sighs, not sure why breath is being wasted on the question when they both know the answer to it already. He briefly considers pointing that out, but seeing how he has little interest in spending the rest of his day in a dank holding cell, he instead straightens and forces a smile on his face as he greets, “Good evening, Detective Inspector Bond.”

        “Good evening?” Once again proving that good manners are wasted upon the police force, Bond scowls at him like he is a puppy just caught pissing on the wall rather than committing the cardinal sin of being civil. “I doubt _he_ would agree.”

        _He_ is René Mathis, 64 years of age. Just like the others, he’s been cut open and drained of all his blood, the slashes almost artistic, if not for the chosen canvas. Q is no medical expert, but even he can see that the death must have been excruciating, the killer taking care to make each of his (or her, but statistically speaking there was a much higher likelihood that the killer is male) incisions a perfect mix of shallow and agonizing, perfectly designed to draw out the end.

        It’s horrifying stuff to be sure, but it’s not what Q is interested in. He’s always driven the editors crazy with his tendency to focus less on the gory details that garnered increased readership and more on the stories behind the murders. _It’s not the 1950s anymore, and you’re not your grandfather_ , Carver had snapped as he’d been handed his P45 and unceremoniously shoved out the door of his last job. _Nobody cares for investigative journalism anymore, Lyon._

        Luckily for him this time around, Mallory was in no position to get rid of the only journalist who was still willing to go to the crime scenes of this particular killer. Of his six predecessors, two had been banned by the police for getting sick on the evidence, three had begged to be reassigned, and the last had quit to take up a calming career as a sheep farmer in the countryside. Mallory might not like his approach to the story, but beggars can’t be choosers, which is why Q asks, “Any connection to the other victims?”

        Bond gives him a look that is usually reserved for the terminally stupid. “Is there ever? I thought it was your own damn paper that nearly caused riots by reporting that there was no pattern in the chosen victims, and that everybody was in danger of being slaughtered in their beds by a raging psychopath.”

        _Don’t be so stupid_ , Q nearly snaps, but just manages to hold it back. The Detective Inspector might be a lot of things – arrogant, reckless, lecher, and utter _bastard_ are just a few choice terms his colleagues used to describe the man – but he is most certainly not an idiot. That doesn’t stop him from replying, “There’s always a connection. Just because you haven’t figured it out doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

        This earns him an indulgent smile which makes him want to bludgeon the man to death with his tablet if not for the cost of replacing said device (especially with his many personal upgrades). But as always, the smile and the rage it inspires is just a diversion as Bond continues, “Are you saying that _you_ know what the connection is?”

        “Not between the victims,” Q replies, before promptly wanting to kick himself. He’s played right into Bond’s hands, as the Detective Inspector knows that he could never resist showing off what he knows. He quickly looks away to avoid the man’s satisfied grin, his eye catching on… _is that?_

        “But between something else,” Bond presses, causing Q to quickly look away so that the man didn’t follow his glance.

        He shrugs, “I am not sure your superiors would appreciate my doing your job for you. How else to justify the salary you’re given?”

        “You mean the one that barely pays for my shitty little flat?” is the dry response. “I’m sure the Queen can afford it. But I believe you were just elaborating on what exactly you’ve figured out, Mr. Lyon.”

        It’s obvious from the way Bond says his name, lingering just enough to make the heat rush to his face, that this is an interrogation technique that has worked many times before. The man should have been a spy, as that smirk simultaneously makes him want to punch and kiss the man senseless, but more than that give up all the information he has just for the possibility of hearing his name said that way again. It’s infuriating, but rather than give in so easily he looks away only to find himself staring at the body.

        Except it isn’t just a body. His name was René Mathis, a perfectly ordinary person who suffered a perfectly unordinary death, and that is all the public will remember of him. Even if the papers report that Mr. Mathis liked poker, wanted to quietly retire to a villa in Italy, and had a daughter that he loved very much, all those details will be lost in the gruesome death as everything unique about that life is reduced to a bloodless corpse.

        Q wants desperately to look away, but if he does he knows that he will be staring at where a hard drive has been hidden away. Bond is too observant to not notice if he does that, so he sighs and says in as bored a tone as he can, “He’s becoming rather predictable in where he leaves the bodies, as surely you must have noticed. Victoria Street, Melbury Road, the Broadway Buildings… they’re all former MI6 accommodations. Rather obvious, don’t you think?”

        “Perhaps. So you think the killer has a connection to MI6?”

        “It’s crossed my mind,” he replies. He should stop there, but even without looking he can tell that Bond is staring at him, and he feels oddly compelled to continue. “But again, it’s all a bit _too_ obvious, especially for someone who is clearly quite intelligent. It might simply be a message, to show how ineffectual law enforcement is to stop him.”

        He doesn’t actually mean that as an insult, although it certainly sounds like one. Bond doesn’t seem to mind though, instead letting out a low chuckle that causes him to look at the man in surprise. “Very good, Mr. Lyon. It’s nice to know that I won’t be needing to arrest you in connection to these murders.”

        “You actually suspected me?” he demands, strangely disappointed that he is going to need to revise his assessment of Bond’s intelligence. After all, given that he’s already narrowed down the likely locations, it’s not as difficult as it sounds to be able to figure out when the police are responding to another victim.

        “No, but some of the others did,” Bond explains casually. “They were starting to wonder how you were able to reach the scenes so quickly, like you already knew where the bodies would be found. You only got here a few minutes after we did, and they’re not sure even you are _that_ good.”

        If that really is what the police thought, it’s no wonder that they hadn’t caught the killer yet. “That’s not only morbid, but would be terribly stupid of me to do such a thing.”

        Bond lets out an easy laugh, one that Q wishes he could appreciate if not for the body that is lying mere feet from where they are standing. “That’s what I said.”

        “Well, it is reassuring to know that you are not entirely hopeless,” he declares primly. “But now that I’ve given you some information, it seems like you should be returning the favor?”

        Luckily for his ego, Q knows better than to expect anything out of Bond. The Detective Inspector is clearly more familiar with the art of taking than giving, as the man asks, “Should I? You know as well as I do that your information is worthless as soon as you print it, which you no doubt will. As soon as the killer realizes that we’re onto him, he’s going to be changing his pattern again, and then we’ll have to start this whole thing over.”

        “It’s still more than you knew before,” he insists stubbornly, although he’s not sure that’s quite right. Bond doesn’t seem all that surprised by what he has said, but then that doesn’t mean his information is worthless either. At the very least, it is confirmation of what Bond suspects, which is why he pushes where he might have once walked away. “Five minutes alone. Just give me five minutes alone to make observations without your men barking orders at me to step back, and then I’ll stop bothering you tonight.”

        He almost regrets it, when Bond steps close – far _too_ close (and yet _not quite enough_ , a part of him complains) – murmuring, “Who said you were bothering me?”

        “You did, the last time we met and you threatened to throw me in prison if I didn’t stop asking difficult questions.”

        Silence. Just as Q is concerned that Bond might follow through on his prior threat, the man lets out a sharp laugh. He doesn’t step away though, and his words are all too clear even though they’re spoken barely above a whisper. “You know, sometimes I think you’re wasted on the profession, Mr. Lyon.”

        Q nearly shivers at the feel of Bond’s breath on his cheek, but not wanting to give the arrogant bastard the satisfaction, he simply offers his best bored expression. Rather than annoy the Detective Inspector, it just seems to amuse the bastard more as he glances over at the medical examiner. “Nearly finished there, Wade?”

        The old man starts at being addressed, casting a nasty look at Q. “You’re not actually thinking of letting him muck about the crime scene, are you?”

        “Seeing how he’s the only one who’s come up with anything useful, I don’t see the harm,” Bond retorts, ignoring the examiner’s grumbles in order to look back at Q. “After all, it’s always useful to have someone like him owe you a favor.”

        He doesn’t need a mirror to know that he is turning bright red, although it is not just from embarrassment. There’s anger too, not at the flirtation because that’s essentially Bond’s modus operandi, but the fact that the man clearly thinks he’s harmless enough to be left alone. As useful as it is to be viewed as insignificant, Q has never done well with being underestimated, and he does not appreciate it any more now.

        But then there’s a shift in Bond’s expression, as all amusement vanishes so completely that Q could almost believe it was never there to begin with. He may have underestimated the man, as Bond is nothing but professional as he says briskly, “Five minutes. You are not to touch anything, tamper with the evidence, or take anything from the scene. If you do, so help me Q, I’ll have you arrested, you got that?”

        “Got it,” he says before he can think twice of how ridiculous that makes him sound. But it isn’t near enough to contain his exhilaration as the men pack up and leave, Bond trailing behind them at a positively glacial pace. Q is anything but slow when the door closes, quickly scampering forward. He doesn’t immediately go for the hard drive, instead circling the room in case Bond is watching. It would have been an ordinary office space, if not for the corpse in the middle of it all. Even that would be removed soon though, and since once again there was no blood in either the body or its surroundings, there would be nothing but yellow tape to mark it as a crime scene.

        After a few minutes, he glances at the door, making sure that Bond is not watching him. There is no peephole in the heavy wood, nor are there any cameras, yet still Q feels like he is being watched as he makes his way to where the hard drive has been hidden away. Except it’s not as much hidden from view as hidden in plain sight, the drive looking like it belongs in this office building. But Q just needed one look to know that such advanced technology does not belong here, not when all the other electronic equipment here looks like it’s from the 1990s.

        No, that drive is clearly _something else_ , and it doesn’t take long for him to gently pry it from its spot, careful to use his scarf so that he doesn’t leave any fingerprints on it. Once he’s done with it, he’ll make sure the police get it (without implicating himself, naturally), but honestly he’s doing them a favor. He’s seen what the Met’s tech people are capable of and, needless to say, it is _not_ reassuring. At least this way, he’ll be able to pull off the relevant data before they got their hands on the hard drive and accidentally destroyed it.

        He’s only just got the device tucked into his jacket when the door opens. Thankfully by this point in his life, Q is used to doing things not quite by the book so there’s no guilt on his face as he turns to face them. As the other officers quickly spread across the room, Bond comes striding straight towards him, stopping only to say, “Hands up.”

        Q stares at Bond in confusion, for a moment thinking that the man really _is_ going to arrest him. But then he takes one look at the confident ( _lecherous_ ) grin and realizes exactly what the Detective Inspector wants to do, and he doesn’t think he can be blamed for his slightly squeaky, “You must be _joking_.”

        “Not in this case.”

        “I am _not_ letting you pat me down,” he replies, his indignation just a cover for his terror because _fuck_ , he really is going to be arrested now and Mallory is going to leave him in prison overnight to teach him a lesson in boundaries, he knows it.

        Just as he is about to debate the merits of doing a runner versus trying to distract Bond by climbing him like a tree, he is rescued by an exasperated, “For fuck’s sake, Jimbo, stop trying to make up excuses to feel up the reporter and come look at this.”

        Bond immediately – if a bit reluctantly – turns away, and Q uses the opportunity to flee, murmuring lame excuses about deadlines. Almost certainly everyone will attribute his blush to Wade’s crude remarks, but as he exits the building and heads back to his flat, he could have sworn that there is something watching him the entire way.

* * *

        The front door is barely shut and locked before Q is practically throwing himself at his computers. Some people might have wondered why he doesn’t go to the office, but frankly he would be better off going to a local coffee shop than trying to use their outdated equipment to get into the hard drive. At least the coffee shop would have food, he thinks wistfully, his stomach rumbling in complaint of the lack of sustenance since a hastily inhaled sandwich (well, half of one) for lunch, but it’s easy enough to ignore in favor of getting into the hard drive.

        Part of him wants to immediately connect the hard drive and dive into it, but he has enough presence of mind to first make sure that his laptop is disconnected from all the networks. He’s not usually this paranoid, since the number of people who could get into his systems can be counted on one hand, but it’s a good habit to have. Still, it’s only a matter of minutes before he’s settled himself in front of his computer and plugging the device in.

        “Oh, you absolute beauty,” he murmurs, staring at the positively exquisite coding. It looks like the owner of the hard drive has done a number of slightly unusual things, but Q has always appreciated a challenge. Despite the amount of obfuscated code and a gloriously difficult polymorphic engine, it takes almost no time at all for Q to get in. He’s positively beaming by the time he inputs the key (M-O-T-H-E-R… _really_?) and somehow his smile gets wider when he sees-

        The laptop screen goes black.

        Q whips around, and he can only gape in horror as his desktop computer turns itself on, emblazoned by colorful skulls as the words scroll across his screen: _Hello, Clever Boy._

        Even though he knows it will be pointless, he surges forward, slamming down on the power button, but this desperate act only seems to make the computer screen _brighter_. Only curiosity that is just the wrong side of _morbid_ keeps him from shaking as new words scrolled across the screen. _And Please Don’t Be So Rude As To Disconnect The Monitor. I Cannot Promise You Would Like The Consequences Of That._

        Shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit_ , he thinks, quite in rhythm with the frantic hammering of his heart. But he knows that whoever is hacking him is unfortunately correct, although even then he would not have tried such a foolish thing. Now that his mind is calming down from its initial panic, he knows that this is an opportunity. _An opportunity that is going to get you killed_ , a voice disturbingly like Bond’s grumbles, but that’s not mutually exclusive with an opportunity to get the story that nobody else in the world ever could. This is his chance to write the story that he has wanted to write ever since he was a child watching one of his grandfather’s newsreels for the first time, telling a story that nobody knew they _needed_ until they had it.

        Q slowly eases himself back into his chair, facing the desktop. He can see that the webcam has turned itself on, so he makes sure to keep his hands in sight lest the man think that he would try to call the police or use his laptop to retaliate. His efforts do not go unacknowledged, as the text continues approvingly. _Good Boy._

        Never taking his eyes off the camera, he types slowly, _What do you want?_ His hands do not shake at all; whatever is happening, it’s still his computer, and he’s not about to be frightened of it.

        _I Wanted To Introduce Myself To The Person Who Could Access The Hard Drive. Those Failsafe Protocols Were Supposed To Wipe The Memory If There Is Any Attempt To Access The Files You Immediately Went For._

        He can’t help but smile slightly at the slightly petulant tone of the words. _They were quite impressive. Only about six people in the world can program safeguards like that._

        _Yet You Were Able To Get Past Them_ , his unseen conversation partner points out.

        _Well, I did invent them._ Maybe his editors had a point in saying that his arrogance was going to be the death of him, but why should he hide his achievements? Besides, he does so enjoy meeting the high expectations set out by others.

        _Did You Really?_ The killer on the other end is anything but disappointed, as even in text, there’s a certain delight in the reaction that makes Q flush ever so slightly. The happy afterglow quickly fades away as the man (or woman, but statistically speaking…) continues, _I Do Hope You’re Not Lying, Or I Might Have To Cut Your Tongue Out._

        He really had not needed a reminder that he was interacting with a vicious serial killer (or perhaps he did, some would argue), so he tries to lessen the tension by saying, _That seems a bit of an extreme reaction._

        _I Find That Extreme Reactions Have Surprisingly Effective Results, Don’t You?_

        _I wouldn’t know_ , he demurs as politely as he can.

        _Really?_ He doesn’t appreciate the skepticism there, and it doesn’t get much better when the killer points out, _This Coming From The Person Who Stole Evidence From A Crime Scene. Not The Brightest Idea, Was It?_

        _Compared to leaving it behind in the first place? That would not be very bright either, if you truly did not mean for someone else to find it_ , he snaps back, before immediately regretting it. But he doesn’t even get the opportunity to press the erase button, every word he typed already devoured by the person sitting on the other side. That’s the problem with getting hacked, he thinks dazedly to himself. It’s hard to filter what you type when it’s being scrutinized in real time.

        The silence following his bold proclamation is more than a little terrifying, and the desire to stand and run is becoming quite overwhelming again. Only the inescapable fact that there is nowhere for him to run _to_ keeps him from bolting, and he cannot hide the way he jerks when the words are slowly typed. _Perhaps Not Such a Clever Boy After All. I’ll Be Seeing You Around._

        Before he can say anything at all, his desktop computer shuts off, leaving him sitting in the darkness and wondering what the _fuck_ he is going to do now.

* * *

        The following three days are spent in a state of increasing paranoia, as every noise makes Q want to jump out of his skin. Considering how there is a serial killer out there who probably wants to _literally_ skin him, he thinks he can be forgiven, but it’s hard to explain to his editor and fellow reporters exactly why he is so nervous when he would prefer not to disclose his illegal activities at the same time.

        “What is wrong with you?” Eve asks for the seventeenth time, growing increasingly exasperated. “You keep acting like you’ve seen a ghost.”

        “I’m fine,” he replies automatically, even though it’s clear that he’s anything but. He knows he is being ridiculous, but even in the confines of the office, he can’t help but feel like he’s always being _watched_. The constant scrutiny from an unseen source is a significant reason why he hasn’t run to Detective Inspector Bond to tell him what is happening.

        (But not the only one, if he is to be honest with himself. He tries not to be in this case, since the last thing he wants to admit is that deep down, he doesn’t want to do anything that could jeopardize this story.)

        Q just manages to avoid flinching when Eve puts a gentle hand on his arm. “How about we go out to the pub tonight? It’s been ages since we’ve chatted, and I’m starting to think that you’re avoiding me.”

        Just as he is about to make his usual excuses, it occurs to him that he doesn’t actually want to sit in his empty flat, waiting for the devil to sweep through his door and devour him whole. Even though there have been no further threats, the silence has only made him all the more certain that whatever happens next, he is not going to be enjoying it very much.

        For the briefest of moments, that is nearly what he says. But when he opens his mouth to speak, what comes out instead is, “You know, considering your uncanny ability to get people to agree with you, it really makes me wonder why you left the field and settled for being our esteemed editor-in-chief’s secretary.”

        As always, this earns him a smack on the arm. “Q, just because you came out of the womb wanting to be a journalist doesn’t mean the rest of us are the same. I’ve told you before; fieldwork’s not for everyone. This suits me.”

        He sighs, knowing there’s no point in arguing and reluctantly getting to his feet as he notices Mallory starting to give him the stink eye for distracting Eve instead of doing work. “Whatever you say, I suppose.”

        _Whatever you say_ turns out to be his general response for the rest of the day, which he regrets more than slightly when he finds himself outside a pub in the arse end of London, trying to hail a taxi without the benefit of the beautiful Eve Moneypenny at his side.

        “You just had to be a gentleman,” he mutters to himself as the third taxi with no passengers flies right by him, its front sign illuminated as if to mock him further. It’s bitterly cold and he huddles into his jacket, just waiting for a concentrated rainstorm to hit and make his misery complete.

        Instead of a rainstorm, he finds himself yelping as a hand grabs his elbow and he’s tugged far too close to another body, who purrs, “Hello, what are you doing out here by yourself? It’s as if you are just waiting for someone to _snap_ you up.”

        Q immediately wrenches himself away, stumbling slightly as he takes in his unwanted companion. The man is tall and broad-shouldered, and he might have been good-looking if not for what is clearly an expensive but not at _all_ flattering blond dye job. Q vaguely remembers Eve commenting on someone having hair like that, although at the time he had been too busy trying to fight back the increasing desire to fling himself out the nearest window to respond beyond an affirmative grunt.

        That desire is coming back full-force now (perhaps it is that fabled ‘survival instinct’ he keeps hearing about, usually in the context of being told that he doesn’t have one). The man’s lips are pressed into a crooked smile, but his eyes are anything but amused, and Q can’t help but take another step back. It’s clear that he’s got away not because of his own strength but because the man permitted it, and that is never a good thing. Q has dealt with people like this before, men who didn’t know how to take no for an answer but instead viewed rejection as part of some coy game. There’s never a good way of dealing with those sorts of people, and the situation is made worse by their current location, where the few people who might want to help are more likely to turn away and run when they see how obviously dangerous this man is.

        He attempts to step past the man, to get back to the pub where at least there will be management who probably don’t want a sexual assault on their premises. Unsurprisingly, he gets nowhere going in that direction, and his only option is to move backwards. Three steps in, he belatedly becomes aware that this is exactly what the man is intending, corralling him towards a tight alley. In his pocket, his right hand tightens around his phone as he quickly unlocks it and starts sending an emergency message to Eve without having to look. If he can manage to survive for five minutes, perhaps he might get out of this relatively unscathed, so he tries to placate the man as best he can. “Look, I’m just not interested, alright?”

        Q hadn’t actually expected words to make a difference in this situation, but that doesn’t mean he cannot feel dismayed when the man just laughs. “But I am very interested in you, _clever boy._ ”

        _Fuck!_ But before he can say or do anything (namely scream and run away), the man charges at him. There’s an arm wrapped around his neck and the other hand wrenches his own right hand from its pocket, causing the phone to clatter to the pavement where it is quickly followed by a heavy boot. He barely notices his hope for rescue fading away as he thrashes desperately against the restraint, the pressure on his throat agonizing and his cries for help barely audible over the gentle shushing sound that the man is making. It’s not long before all he can do is whimper as he tries to concentrate instead on breathing, but that is near impossible too. In his wildest dreams, he never imagined going out like this, and he must say that he doesn’t care for it at all.

        Unfortunately for him, his attacker doesn’t care much for what he thinks either, and all too quickly, he finds himself fading into a pain-tainted blackness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Mr. Lyon,” Silva cuts off, but rather than be irritated with the stream of questions he sounds positively delighted. “I do believe you are trying to conduct an interview when I’m about to murder you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to ReadByRain15 and Isanah for their wonderful beta-work!

        “Ow.”

        A silence follows this bold proclamation. The man pauses in his fingering of the excessively large knife, looking at Q with raised eyebrows. “‘Ow?’ Is that really all you have to say?”

        “It’s the best you’re going to get when you’ve given me a massive headache via strangulation,” he replies, once again proving that no amount of pain or terror will keep him from giving lip to anyone who crosses him, even if said anyone has him trussed up as securely as an unwanted Christmas present. His shirt has also apparently been taken, which neatly explains the goose bumps that are quickly prickling across his naked chest. Well, that and the serial killer sitting a mere few feet away. “Did you really have to do that?”

        “Were you really going to come quietly just because I asked nicely?” the man replies.

        The bastard may have a point, but that doesn’t stop Q from commenting, “We will never know, seeing how you didn’t even bother asking in the first place.”

        The man shrugs. “Well, what is the point of wasting time on questions that I already know the answer to? I would think that you would appreciate that sort of efficiency, Mr. Lyon.”

        Q blanches, and the blood must drain from his face quite quickly considering how amused the man looks. Things go from bad to worse as the man brandishes his wallet, casually reading from his identity card. “John Lyon, age 29, born in London on October 14, 1985. Why Q?”

        “What?” But even as he asks, he knows exactly what the man is trying to do. It’s a technique that he uses all the time to get information from reluctant interviewees, using the abrupt changes in topic in the hope of catching people off-guard so that they say something they did not mean to. No wonder people seem to be perpetually irritated with him, if this is how it makes them feel.

        Not that it’s likely to stop him from being sympathetic to their idiocy in the future, a sentiment that the man seems to share considering his put-upon sigh. One would almost think that it is Q who is in the wrong, rather than being the one who has been so rudely kidnapped and is likely about to become a murder victim. “Why do you go by Q? Your name does not start with that letter.”

        Because the man is right in that he has no interest in wasting what little time he has left on questions that he already knows the answer to, he doesn’t bother asking how the man knows of his preferred nickname. He has no doubt that the man didn’t even need his identification card, having probably already memorized all his personal details down to his blood type, shoe size, and last eight places of employment. So he answers, “I used to play a lot of scrabble when I was a child, and the nickname just stuck.”

        The explanation is easy, as he’s given it so many times before, but the man’s reaction is far different from any other person. Most people laughed and a few used it as a justification to immediately write him off, but no one had ever lunged forward to straddle him before grabbing him by the throat, face twisted in rage while hissing, “You’re lying.”

        He opens his mouth to deny (to _lie_ ), but only a panicked wheezing sound slips out as the knife comes dangerously close to his… fuck, not his _hands_ , he really does not want to lose his hands, and he tries to make this point as clear as possible when there are so many other possible reasons for his distress.

        “Don’t lie to me,” the man whispers after what has to only be a few seconds but seems to last an eternity and a half. “If there’s one thing I cannot stand in this world, it is a _liar_.”

        He nods frantically, desperate to convey his agreement. The knife is so close that one wrong move from either of them, and he’ll be lucky if he’s left only with an especially nasty paper cut instead of a few of his fingers littering the lovely silk bedspread. But finally, if far too slowly, the knife moves away from his hands and his throat released. This is no cause for relief though, as he is still tied to a _goddamn bed_ and unable to look away from that clear desire to _hurt_ in those cold eyes. In fact, this is probably the point where he should be apologizing or begging for mercy, but whether it is because he knows that neither will be effective or because he just lacks any sense, he asks, “What do you want?”

        The man tilts his head slightly, looking him over like he’s debating what piece to start lopping off first. But the knife doesn’t come any closer even as the man asks, “What do I want? I think the better question is what do _you_ want?”

        “Well, a profile might be nice.” The answer might have come across better if not for the way his voice trembles; what he wouldn’t give for them to be communicating via a computer again.

        “A profile,” the man repeats before laughing coldly. “I don’t think I can offer you that, but how about a headline? Intrepid journalist slain in futile hunt to unmask vicious serial killer.”

        Q swallows in an equally futile attempt to calm himself, although it doesn’t do that very well (but it is apparently very amusing to the bastard who is still on top of him). “No, I think I would much prefer the profile, if it’s all the same to you.”

        He tries not to start when the man chuckles. “What a pretty tongue you have, clever boy.”

        “I’m not a boy,” he replies, annoyance at the trite nickname quickly taking the place of bone-deep fear. This is probably a sign of his skewed priorities, but if he is about to be stabbed, the least his stabber can do is _get his goddamn age right_.

        “You look like one,” is the cheerful response. Before Q can snap that of course he hasn’t heard _that_ one before, the man’s voice lowers, whispering, “You act like one. Thinking you were invincible, that you could come after me without consequences. You really didn’t think this one through, did you _clever boy_.”

        “I didn’t come after you. You kidnapped me off the street.”

        His protest sounds weak even to him, so it’s no wonder that the man is staring at him with an expression that Q is very familiar with, namely the one people give him when trying to decide on the best way to shut him up. He gets it at least twice a day, but usually those people don’t have him in quite this compromising a position. “You took my things,” the man finally says, as if that is justification enough for knocking someone out and stripping them half-naked before tying them to a bed (maybe it is; Q has threatened to do far worse to people who messed with his computer setup). “And please don’t insult my intelligence by claiming that you didn’t know it was mine. You wouldn’t have taken it if you believed otherwise.”

        “But isn’t that why you left it behind?” he asks, and the split-second look of surprise emboldens him to continue. “You don’t seem like the type to do anything by accident. You wanted someone to find it, at least, although if you wanted it to be the police then I think you would have been disappointed. Those failsafe protocols were rather difficult to get through.”

        “That assumes that there was anything worth accessing on that hard drive,” the man corrects almost gently, and Q can’t suppress a yelp of outrage when hands go to his trousers, yanking them down. The indignation and any courage he might have had quickly shrink away when the flat of the blade is pressed against his thigh, bitingly cold. His breath becomes fast and shallow as the blade is tilted, and he closes his eyes as he waits for sharp pain followed by the stench of blood. Instead, the man begins to drag the blade up his leg, towards… _stop, stop, stop, stop_ -

        He can’t help but gasp in relief as the knife is removed just in time, and he hesitantly opens his eyes to find the man giving him a smile that is nothing short of patronizing. “No, no, the point of leaving that behind was to see who would pick it up. And luckily for me, that person is very interesting indeed.”

        “Charmed,” he rasps back.

        The man pats him on the cheek, although it’s not nearly enough to distract him from the knife returning to his collarbone. “Yes, it really has been a pleasure to meet you. But look at me, this is our third conversation and I still haven’t introduced myself.” The man’s smile widens, and there is nothing but cruelty in it. “Raoul Silva. My name is Raoul Silva.”

        Q immediately tenses, drawing another laugh from Silva as the bastard lets his body weight settle more firmly. But whether it is that or the implications of being told Silva’s name so easily that is making it near impossible to breathe again, he cannot even begin to speculate at. “Why are you so worried, clever boy?”

        As much as it irritates him, this is probably not the time to be taking issue with the nickname again. “Usually kidnappers aren’t so forthcoming with their names unless they’re not planning to let their victim live.”

        Silva has the audacity to look hurt by the suggestion. “I’m not just any kidnapper.”

        “So you are planning on letting me live?” he asks skeptically. Nothing about this conversation so far has given him any confidence that this is going to turn out well for him, but that doesn’t mean he has to give up entirely. Surrender has never been a part of Q’s vocabulary, much to the dismay of reluctant sources.

        “Now why must you focus so much on that gloomy possibility?” Silva asks, the cold smile slipping back onto his face. “For my part, I am far more interested in learning about _you_ right now.”

        “If that’s the case, then I…” he pauses, his eyes narrowing back to the knife that is dangerously close to his throat. Not that he thinks he is at risk of having his throat slit, as such a quick death has not been Silva’s style. The thought is not overly reassuring though, as the bodies of Mathis and other recent victims quickly flash before his eyes, but he manages to continue, “I don’t suppose you can put the knife away? It’s surprisingly difficult to talk with a giant knife at one’s throat.”

        “Is it? I find it does wonders to loosen people’s tongues.”

        Q blinks, and it’s his turn to tilt his head slightly so he can get a better look at Silva. Probably he should be trying to back away, but he can’t deny that this… this is his chance. Assuming he survives this, which is a massive assumption indeed, this is _his_ story. This is his chance to learn more about the man that all of London… no, all of Britain is _obsessed_ with, wondering what he will do next. Q cares less about that and more about the _why_ , to understand what would drive Silva to commit such horrific murders with no apparent connection. Which is why, even at risk of death, he asks, “Is that what you’ve been after? Information? It seems an odd reason, considering your hacking skills, for what information could you possibly be looking for that you could not get through electronic means-?”

        “Mr. Lyon,” Silva cuts off, but rather than be irritated with the stream of questions he sounds positively delighted. “I do believe you are trying to conduct an interview when I’m about to murder you.”

        There’s no hiding his shudder at that, which is less a threat and more a statement of fact. Still, he replies, “I might as well get something out of this. What do you do with it anyway?”

        Silva’s eyes sparkle with what can only be malice, but he lets the first sentence slide to focus on the second. “With what, precisely? You must be more specific than that.”

        “The blood.” It’s so hard to keep his voice steady on such a morbid subject, but he makes a fairly good attempt. “It’s never where you leave the bodies, and even when the police manage to find where you did your… good work, the blood you leave behind is minimal at best. It’s certainly not enough considering how you make a point of draining the bodies of your victims, yet-”

        “Now, you’re not really interested in that, are you?” Silva interrupts, looking almost let down by him. “That sounds like the type of scandalous detail your editor and the bleating public would be interested in. I would think that someone of your… _lineage_ would not be caught up in such trivialities.”

        Q turns a bit red at that because Silva is of course right; his grandfather would be ashamed that he would inquire after such a trivial matter when there were so many _better_ questions to pursue. But no amount of shame can stop him from continuing stubbornly, “You must be doing something with the blood. What are you doing, making candles?”

        “Candles from human blood?” Silva sounds mockingly scandalized, which does nothing for Q’s flush. “That does not sound very hygienic.”

        He can only stare at the man, before replying a bit more pointedly than he probably should, given his current circumstances. “Considering how you are the one who is bleeding people dry, you must excuse me for thinking that hygiene is not your main priority.”

        “Actually, hygiene is very important in this line of work,” Silva replies in all seriousness. Not that Q is about to take his words at face value, but he has to admit that there is something rather… fastidious about the man. His appearance may be eccentric, yet it is also _neat_ to the point of obsessiveness, whether it is the fact that every line of his tan suit is perfectly pressed and his hideously colorful shirt completely unwrinkled, or how his nails are perfectly filed and not an ugly blond hair is out of place. “But no, that is not what I do.”

        “Surely you don’t drink it?” Q asks, slightly alarmed.

        Silva looks like he would be rolling his eyes if it was not so beneath him. “You watch too much television.”

        “Again, says the man who _bleeds people dry_.” He should probably stop emphasizing the fact, since he doubts Silva needs a reminder of what he intends to do him, but he really can’t help but drive that point in. Again.

        In response, the man who bleeds people dry shrugs, like he really does not understand why Q feels compelled to bring it up again. “Everyone needs to have a hobby.”

        This, he cannot possibly believe. “And that’s all this is to you? A hobby?”

        “Of sorts. You doubt me?” When Q stays quiet, the man nods in approval. “Ah. You understand that it’s not actually about the killing.”

        “Well, it is a little hard to believe,” Q replies carefully, although Silva is correct. Q isn’t about to claim that he knows the man particularly well, but there is something about him that suggests Silva cannot possibly be motivated just by a desire to kill. And it’s not because he is clearly intelligent, but there has to be something _more_ about him. There has to be a _point_ because everything that the man does seems to be calculated to a fault.

        A hand forces his chin up, angling his head upwards so that he can no longer see Silva anymore, can only stare at the headboard and his own bound hands as cold fingers caress his throat. Each and every one of Silva’s whispered words are breathed across his neck, and just as with Bond, it’s nearly enough to make him shiver. “It’s about the people; it always is. The rats who scurry along the crime scene, hoping to find that vital clue to stop the next one. The journalists who follow the story, even knowing where it might lead them.” That one is quite barbed, and Q has his suspicions on why. “And most of all, it’s about the subject, as they endure the pain. It’s so different for each of them, you know. Some try to be brave, some rage against me or their gods, some cry and weep for mercy. Yet no matter how they react at the beginning, they’re all reduced to the same pathetic creatures in the end. Screaming from the pain, their mouths and eyes wide in agony, unable to control themselves any longer as the animal inside is ripped from them. Humans are all so different and yet exactly alike, and it’s that moment, that moment when all those differences intersect with the similarities… it’s remarkable, Q. It truly is _remarkable_.”

        Even with the reverence in Silva’s words, Q isn’t sure he can agree with any of that. But agreement is not what Silva is looking for, so he takes in a deep breath, the movement making the fingers tighten ever so slightly as he asks, “So you do this to understand people?”

        “Understand?” Silva replies, disgust coloring the word as he releases Q. “I understand people fine. I understand how terrible and awful they are, thinking that they alone deserve to live when the fact is that nobody does. No, I do it to make a point. To make them and everyone else understand that no matter how special they think they are, they are all the same. They are all _disposable_ , and in the end, they all have to die.”

        Then Silva is grinning, and it is such a wretched expression indeed. “I know why you call yourself _Q_. It’s because you want to be different. Just like your grandfather, you’ve always wanted to be different, to stand out because you’re better, to prove to the world just how much more intelligent you are than the rest of them. And it is precisely because of that need that you find yourself in this current predicament.”

        Q opens his mouth, although he has no idea how he could possibly respond to that. It turns out that he doesn’t need to as his glasses are carefully removed, followed by a finger being placed on his lips. “Shh, shh. No more questions, Q. I think I’ve told you quite enough already. Now it’s my turn to learn a little bit about you.”

        Unfortunately for both of them, Q has never been very good at following instructions. “I don’t know if that’s entirely necessary. It seems to me that you know plenty about me already.”

        “Not everything can be learned through witty conversation,” Silva replies softly, slowly moving his weight off of Q’s chest. He is given no time to feel relief at this, as the tip of a fingernail begins to trace gentle lines down his calves. It is quickly followed by the blade of the knife, pressed against his skin. “Are you ticklish?”

        He is not. He considers lying because fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , the way Silva is eyeballing his crotch is _not at all reassuring_ , but Silva has made his position clear when it comes to liars, and Q is in no hurry to find out what the man would do if he is caught in another lie. “No,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and barely audible, but apparently it is quite loud enough for his captor.

        “Good.”

        _Shit, shit, shit, shit,_ shit, his mind thinks frantically, but he lies as still as possible. For the first (and probably the last time in his life, at the rate things are going), he finds himself stupidly grateful for the weight of Silva’s body on his legs and the tight bindings on his wrist that keep him pinned in place, unable to squirm even unconsciously as he feels the point of the blade sink into the skin right above his left ankle. But instead of breaking skin, Silva just waits for a moment, as if to allow Q to get used to the sensation. Why the man would bother with such gentlemanly behavior, he has no idea, but then he finds himself choking on his own bile as the blade is pulled up his leg towards his knee, before being removed. Then the same gesture is repeated on his right leg but harder this time, and although the blade never cuts through his skin he can feel a long line of welts being left in its wake.

        Silva hums as he works ( _Boum_ by Charles Trenet, Q identifies numbly), although somehow it’s not enough to drown out the sound of the knife being dragged up his leg. But where the man had settled for straight lines before, he starts to get creative at Q’s thighs, the trail taking on elaborate curves the closer they get to his crotch. Silva pauses only to rip off his pants before continuing his journey upwards. The man does not linger there for long though, which is surprising except not really, as nothing Silva has done has suggested a desire for sex. No, it’s about control, about inflicting that terror that Silva spoke so fondly of only minutes before, and as each minute passes now at an agonizingly slow rate, Q finds it harder and harder to breathe.

        “Oops,” Silva whispers just once, grinning impishly when Q looks down at him in undisguised horror as he sees blood – _his_ blood – roll off a particularly elegant line and towards the red silk sheets he’s lying on. “It does that sometimes, I’m afraid. But don’t worry, just because it weeps a little blood does not mean there will be any scars left on this lovely skin of yours. There is no reason for you to look so concerned.”

        Actually, Q is of the mind that there are many, _many_ reasons for him to be concerned, but then the blade is traveling up his chest before lazily running down his arms. There is more blood here, again not enough to start shrieking about but more than enough to make him dizzy as the knife grazes each of his knuckles, gentle as a lover’s kiss.

        It’s not long before Silva returns to his chest, and the farther up Silva goes, the harder the lines get. Q can do nothing but wait in trepidation, certain that at any second the point will break through his skin, especially when the knife lingers above his heart, which is beating so hard that it feels ready to burst apart. It doesn’t, and neither does Silva as he keeps going up, up, _up_. Silva draws the blade along the tender skin of his throat to the line of his jaw, never cutting through but leaving a trail of fire that Q is certain will consume him whole. He doesn’t stop there, of course he doesn’t, creating fine parallel lines as if to decorate Q with the most perverse of necklaces, with a few drops of blood to substitute for expensive jewels.

        “You’re very beautiful like this,” Silva whispers into his ear as the last of the lines is completed. He barely hears the compliment because he’s seconds away from flat out hyperventilating, but then Silva’s lips are on his and all other sensation is immediately washed away. All he knows is Silva, overwhelming him not just with the scent of obviously expensive cologne or the pain as strong hands clench tightly on his chin, rubbing against the welts that were so recently placed there. No, it’s more than that; it’s like being _consumed_ by someone who is capable of breaking him apart, but rather than want to recoil, for a terrible, _confounding_ moment, Q wants _more_. Because it’s not about being taken. It’s about the challenge, the fact that Silva thinks he _can_ when Q knows that it will never be that easy, that he will prove the bastard wrong because that is what he has spent his entire life doing, proving the people who dared to look down on him _wrong_. And if he takes a certain amount of satisfaction at the way Silva wavers when _he_ deepens the kiss, closing his eyes as he pushes himself towards the man in spite of the danger and the risk and _everything_ , well. At least he is getting one thing right before the end.

        Perhaps that is why Silva abruptly pulls away, and for a time the only thing between them is the sound of their respective breathing. Then a finger is tracing his lips, followed by a sigh and words that are tinged with regret. “It’s such a shame, really. I would have liked some more time with you.”

        Q’s eyes fly open at that, just in time to see the hilt of the knife descending towards his forehead.

* * *

        Q doesn’t quite know what he expects to wake up to. For one thing, he was really not expecting to wake up at all, given Silva’s rather depressing track record. For another, on the off-chance that he did manage to wake up, he was expecting to be met with a lot of pearly white and angels trumpeting loudly, although Q could not profess to having ever been the religious sort.

        He gets neither of these things. Instead Q wakes up to find Detective Inspector Bond looking rather displeased with him. It also doesn’t take him long to realize that he is very cold, not to mention still quite naked.

        Given these circumstances, he thinks he might _actually_ have preferred the angels.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His breath hitches when he sees the lines criss-crossing his body, the lines he could not stand to look at the previous night as he had shuddered in his bed. It’s both terrible yet oddly beautiful, and it takes him a painfully long amount of time to realize that this isn’t the first time he’s seen these patterns before, except instead of welts they are normally sliced more deeply into a corpse._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to ReadByRain15 and Isanah for their wonderful beta-work!

        Q’s unexpected awakening is followed by quite a bit of yelling.

        First there is Bond, who yells not only at him but at the other officers and even the hospital staff, for making the unforgivable error of trying to inform him of his medical condition now that he’s awake. Despite all the yelling and glowering and the splitting headache that was compounded by being knocked out _again_ , Q is able to quickly piece together a vague timeline for what happened after he lost consciousness.

        Apparently Eve had received his text, although by the time the police had reached his phone, it was far too late. Thus, they were already on high alert when Bond received an anonymous (three guesses on who _that_ was, and the first two won’t count) message with his location, which is where he had been found in his rather humiliating position. It’s no wonder that Q had promptly chosen to pass out again, blissfully unaware as he was cut free and taken to the nearest hospital.

        There he is met by Mallory and Eve, who do not hesitate to join in on the row. Mallory rarely yells so it is actually quite frightening when he does, although it doesn’t last long as his anger gives way to a disappointment that makes Q feel like a naughty schoolchild. Eve is equally unforgiving, insulting his intelligence in all manners of way. While he appreciates the fact that they were obviously worried for his welfare (even if Mallory’s concern is likely for less altruistic reasons, as murder of a staff member does tend to put a damper on one’s business), they’re doing absolutely nothing for his headache. He’s therefore a little relieved when Bond shoos them away, although that relief is short-lived when the man immediately starts interrogating him.

        Q doesn’t hold anything back here, telling the Detective Inspector everything the man wants to know. Honestly, Bond should be pleased with what he’s been given, seeing how he now has a name and accurate physical description when less than twenty-four hours before he’d had nothing. Bond doesn’t seem at all happy though, glaring at Q throughout the entire conversation to the point that Q starts wishing for a knife edge at his throat again.

        Well, perhaps not really, he thinks with a shudder. Bond, being the observant bastard that he is, immediately notices. “Something wrong, Mr. Lyon?”

        “Besides the kidnapping and near death thing?” he snaps back, immediately wincing as pain shoots through his head again.

        “Yes, besides that,” Bond replies. He is not smiling. “So besides your description of Mr. Silva, is there anything else you want to add? Maybe _why_ he came after you?” Before Q can come up with a perfectly reasonable explanation that has absolutely nothing to do with stealing evidence from a crime scene, Bond cuts off that avenue of escape by continuing, “You’re not the only journalist who reports on him, and not even the only journalist who is stupid enough to think he can catch him in the act.”

        “I am the only one who’s come close,” he replies, before correcting hastily, “… well, close enough.”

        “And now he’s left you alive to give us even more information about him.”

        Q shrugs, a move he instantly regrets as it pulls on the lines of welts. “If it helps ease your mind, Detective Inspector, I’m just as surprised about that as you are.”

        “Mm,” is all Bond says, looking him over again. Q stares backs evenly, even though there’s a part of him that not only feels the heavy weight of an unseen person watching him, but the fine point of a knife running down his spine from the back of his head to his tailbone. Silva hasn’t touched there yet, but it occurs to him that the man might just be leaving a blank canvas for future work, a disturbing prospect indeed. “You know, this little incident hasn’t done anything to convince the others that you’re not somehow connected to these murders. Why else would he have left you alive if you didn’t have your own part to play?”

        It’s surprisingly difficult to fight back the exasperation he feels at this accusation, even though Bond is not the one who is actually levelling it. No, the Detective Inspector is using it as an interrogation technique, giving him a reason to provide more information than he wants to in a desperate bid to clear his name of any wrongdoing. Honestly, it’s not particularly effective when he knows that Bond is convinced he is not involved in these murders. But since the man has managed to keep a straight face despite seeing his naked body, he decides to throw the man a bone nevertheless. “Because this is part of his game too, I expect. He wants to see how you will react now that you have this information.”

        Bond says nothing for a long time. Instead, he simply continues to watch him. Once those piercing blue eyes would have made Q squirm, but after Silva’s madness, they are nothing in comparison. Every breath he takes causes the lines on his skin to prickle, a reminder of how close to death he just was, so it’s easy to endure this silence.

        The Detective Inspector stands, and it is clear that he is being dismissed. “You can go, Mr. Lyon. We may have other questions for you later, but try to stay out of trouble for now.”

        “I can’t make any promises,” he replies. They both know that it’s really not up to him anyway.

* * *

        Journalists, as it turns out, are the worst sort of gossips. They not only know everything about anything, but they lack the discretion to at least _pretend_ not to discuss it when the subject of said gossip is standing less than two inches away and becoming increasingly unsuccessful in pretending that his only desire in the world _isn’t_ to staple everyone’s goddamn lips shut.

        It’s hard enough not to twitch every time he feels another person staring shamelessly at him, but when Denbigh makes a poorly timed comment (then again, _all_ of the arse’s comments are the epitome of _poorly timed_ ) about how this was probably the closest he has ever come to getting any, he nearly launches himself over his desk to tackle the man.

        What stops him is not Mallory coming out of his office or Eve’s warning look, but the fact that he whips around so quickly to snarl at Denbigh that it ends up tearing some of the welted lines, causing blood to seep down his neck.

        Q is not the only one who stops at this; the entire floor goes still, transfixed by the grisly sight before them. Only Eve has the sense to do something since Q is completely incapable, taking him gently by the hand and ushering him to the loo. By the time they reach the toilets, he’s regained enough sense to politely but firmly decline Eve’s offers to help him, locking the door securely before he finds himself staring blankly at the mirror. There’s still blood running down his neck, but he makes no effort to staunch the flow, instead just watching as it soaks into his cardigan.

        According to the doctors, the injuries he has are superficial if extremely embarrassing, and it doesn’t seem like Silva did anything more after hitting him with the knife except to clean the wounds. Why Silva would be so kind, he has no idea, but then he still doesn’t know why the man had let him live.

        _Perhaps it is for this_ , he thinks as slowly, hesitantly, he unbuttons his shirt. His breath hitches when he sees the lines criss-crossing his body, the lines he could not stand to look at the previous night as he had shuddered in his bed. It’s both terrible yet oddly beautiful, and it takes him a painfully long amount of time to realize that this isn’t the first time he’s seen these patterns before, except instead of welts they are normally sliced more deeply into a corpse.

        Q is not a corpse ( _not_ yet _, clever boy_ ), but that doesn’t make it any easier to breathe as he takes in the sight of his marked skin.

* * *

        Q leaves work shortly after. It’s not that he particularly wants to go back home (to his empty, _vulnerable_ flat; there was a reason why he went to the office so quickly, after all), but when he started to protest, Mallory had given him the _look_ that rather suggested he should listen to the man’s advice if he didn’t want to spend the next six months looking for a new job.

        The journey back is not a pleasant one. The tube is so empty that Q cannot help but flash back to every bad horror movie he’s ever been forced to watch, to the point that he is so starved for human contact that he’s almost relieved to see Detective Inspector Bond at his stop. He’s less relieved when Bond spends the entire trip to his flat questioning him about Silva, but at the exact moment he decides to go spontaneously deaf, he notices that the CCTV cameras are trained directly on them.

        Or, to be more precise, _him_.

        _Fuck that_ , he thinks viciously as he picks up his pace, and he ignores Bond’s blatant attempts to invite himself into Q’s flat, settling for slamming the door in the man’s face instead. If the man wants to arrest him, he is welcome to do so, but for now Q busies himself by throwing himself into his chair and turning on all of his computers. It takes him a good six hours and his head is positively spinning by the time he’s done, but eventually he’s arranged things so that every CCTV camera that picks up his image will transmit back to a very specific viewing audience videos of kittens playing with string.

        He’s barely finished his good work when a tiny script box pops up on the bottom left corner of his screen, admonishing, _That’s Not Very Nice. You Should Be More Grateful To People Who Refrained From Killing You._

        _And you should not be trying to kill me in the first place_ , he shoots back. He’d be lying if he claimed that he had not expected this exact message, as Silva has made his hacking skills clear the last time around. The bastard has probably been watching him work for quite some time now, but Q can give as good as he gets, and just because Silva is watching doesn’t mean the man can stop him. Q is skilled at what he does, after all, and that knowledge is empowering (although most people would call it sheer arrogance).

        Of course, he knows that just because they’re communicating through a computer doesn’t mean he is out of the man’s reach, but he’s more than a little humiliated from what happened at the office and Bond’s questioning. To top it off the headache that Silva inflicted upon him is not quite gone either, so he thinks he can be excused for being a little snappish.

        Besides, a part of him knows that it doesn’t matter anyway. Q has never been fatalistic, but he is also a realist; if Silva wants to kill him, the man will do so, and nothing he says will change that. The least he can do is ensure that however he goes, it is on his terms, and so he is not about to back down in a futile attempt to save himself.

        _What Can I Say, It’s In My Nature._

        _A likely excuse_ , he replies. _Besides, if that was the case, why let me live?_

        _You Are Interesting._ Q rolls his eyes, tapping his fingers on the desk as he waits for something more because surely there has to be more of an explanation than that. Silva seems to think it sufficient though as the man finally asks, _Is That Not Enough Of A Reason? For Someone Who Puts On Such An Arrogant Façade, You Seem Quite Determined To Undervalue Yourself._

        He starts at that, his face reddening quite against his will, and the webcam blinks as if laughing at him. It’s hardly necessary because he can practically hear Silva’s low chuckle against his neck, and he honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he turned around to find the man there, hands reaching out to curl possessively around his waist. It takes everything in him not to turn around, to stare straight ahead at the camera with his head held high even if it gives Silva a perfect view of his neck and the bastard’s handiwork.

        _Very Nice_ , Silva compliments because he is a self-admiring, egotistical arse. Needless to say, it is not appreciated, an opinion he hopes is made clear by his arched eyebrow and continued silence as he clearly keeps his hands on his lap, away from the keyboard. Refusing to engage isn’t exactly the most conventional of interview techniques, but then Q has never been the most conventional of reporters.

        And most importantly, Raoul Silva is not the most conventional of interview subjects, so Q can only smile grimly when the next message scrolls across the screen. It’s a jumble of words and numbers, and as he quickly writes it down his mind is already swirling them around, desperate to make sense of them.

        _Come find me, clever boy_ , Silva challenges, before immediately logging off. Even the webcam turns off, leaving Q alone with a puzzle that he knows will possibly be leading him to a messy demise, but that both of them know he absolutely cannot resist.

* * *

        It takes Q forty-nine hours to solve the puzzle. It takes Silva forty-seven hours and thirty minutes to leave behind his latest victim, so by the time he reaches the appointed time and place, it’s already crawling with police.

        “Boris Grishenko,” Bond says without turning to look at him. Q knows from experience that there’s no sneaking up on the man, so he’s not the least offended. “Know him?”

        “No,” Q replies, glancing at the body. He can’t look for long; like all the others _except_ himself, it is clear that the lurid patterns drawn over the skin are the cause of a long, painful death. The lines on his own skin might finally be fading, but each of them seems to crawl back to life at the mere sight of its more lethal brethren. “Should I?”

        The Detective Inspector can’t even be bothered to work up the energy to give him the ‘ _You’re not fooling anyone with your willful ignorance act_ ’ look, an expression that Q is far more familiar with giving than receiving. But seeing how there have been so many changes in his life over the last few days, this is the least of his worries. “A computer programmer, this one, with ties to some Russian terrorist organizations. No reason to think he’s been targeted for that, especially since most of them have long been defunct and your new _friend_ doesn’t seem the patriotic kind.”

        The wholly unnecessary emphasis is not lost on him, nor is the fact that he is getting this information in the first place. “Why are you telling me these things, Detective Inspector? Usually getting information from you requires either a drink offer or the knotted end of a thick rope.”

        “Just saving time. We both know you’ll get the information eventually, so might as well save us both the trouble,” Bond replies coolly. “Although I wouldn’t say no to that drink offer. You do owe me a favor, after all.”

        Q huffs, wholly unimpressed as he stuffs his hands into his pockets, his fingers curling around the paper on which he’s solved Silva’s little riddle. For a moment, he wonders if he could have saved Grishenko if he had gone to the police with this information, but he quickly dismisses the idea. Even if the police could have figured out the puzzle in time – a dubious concept, honestly – Silva had only told him where and when the next victim would be found, nothing about who the man was. It wouldn’t have prevented anything, and Silva would have simply found another place to dump the body as soon as he realized the police would be there. And he would have realized it, that Q has no doubt about.

        “This isn’t following his usual pattern of behavior,” he says abruptly, shoving the paper deeper into his pocket as he looks up at the Detective Inspector, who is smiling wryly. “But you knew that already.”

        “Yes, well, occasionally we do try to do our own work, rather than rely on the papers for our information.” Bond casts a glance at the body, where his men are hard at work, trying to find something, _anything_ that could allow them to prevent the next killing. It’s a thankless job, no doubt, as anyone with an opinion – and that is everyone these days – has been castigating the police force as ineffective and useless, unable to help an old lady cross a street safely, let alone protect the public from a vicious serial killer. But if Q knows anything about Bond, it’s that he’s never cared much for public opinion. He’ll keep doing what he can, and that is more than can be said about most people, who might take pleasure in reading the details but would go mad if they had to see the things that Bond did.

        “So what do you think his new pattern is?” Q asks. Upon receiving nothing but silence, he has no choice but to answer his own question, an answer that in all honesty, he has been dreading. “You think it has something to do with me.”

        Bond looks back at him, and his words are calm and measured. “I didn’t say that, did I?” Somehow he manages to make Q feel like an utter narcissist for daring to think such a thing, even though it’s the only logical conclusion. It also neatly explains why Bond is being so forthcoming when before the man has always made clear that he was nothing more than a nuisance. After all, what better way to keep an eye on him (and by extension, Silva) than by giving him access to the investigation? The Detective Inspector is not exactly subtle, and he manages to be even less so when he continues, “Unless you know something else?”

        It’s less a question and more a warning, and Q honestly has to wonder if Bond already knows that Silva has been in contact with him since letting him go ( _for now_ ). As a practical matter he knows it is impossible, since there’s no one in the Met who is capable of hacking into his systems. But Bond has a knack for making him wonder, and it’s hard not to just give in and tell the man everything he knows.

        Not that there’s much to tell. Or at least, not _yet_ , if Q has anything to say about it.

        “You know,” Bond says, mistaking Q’s silence as a reluctance to speak. “This isn’t going to end well for you, Mr. Lyon. He obviously has something planned for you, and it’s in your interest that we find him before he reaches that point.”

        “You think I don’t know that already?” he snaps, bristling at the implication. He is not actually an idiot and does not need Bond telling him what he already knows (and fears).

        “No,” is the simple reply. Bond is unfazed by his anger, meeting his glare easily. “But I really don’t think you understand either.”

* * *

        It takes two hours of staring at a blank computer screen before Q finally realizes that something is wrong.

        Granted, it probably should not have taken so long. Q has never been one to be idle, and even when he is having trouble figuring out how to start a story, he at least is able to start writing down ideas and information, organizing it in some fashion. Eventually all the pieces would come together, but right now, he cannot even figure out the individual pieces. He has so much information, yet as soon as he starts to type a word, his mind goes back to a knife skimming across his skin, leaving a mark that goes far deeper than what is visible.

        He hates it. He hates that Silva is making him into something that he is not. It’s not like Q has never been threatened before (to the contrary, in fact), but there’s a danger to the man that is… different. Not just because Silva is a murderer, a skilled and vicious one at that, or that he has proven himself capable of interfering with Q’s life at any moment, but something… something deeply intangible, and Q does not appreciate that at all. No matter what, he’s always been able to explain things, to reveal the truth that is at the center of every event and every action. But with Silva, he has nothing. Everything he knows about the man adds up to nothing, and he is no closer to understanding Silva than before he had nearly been murdered.

        Yet at the same time, that is what _fascinates_ him so much about this story. It would be easy to write Silva off as deranged, killing simply for the sake of it. But that explanation just doesn’t feel right, and Q wants nothing more than to figure out why. It’s a puzzle that is just as challenging as the one Silva himself had given him, and the thought of solving it leaves him absolutely breathless with anticipation.

        _You’re going to get yourself killed_ , he can already hear Bond growling at him. The Detective Inspector no doubt has a point. Silva is dangerous, which is precisely why Q is truly and honestly _terrified_. He’s never been so scared in his life, knowing that he could turn a corner and run straight into the man’s arms. That he could enter a room and find Silva waiting for him there, ready to finish the job that he has already started. But none of that means he gets to stop. He may be alive at Silva’s indulgence, but he was also the one who had _given_ the man a reason to let him live in the first place. And as long as he is able to be that person, he will continue to follow this story.

        Q gets to his feet, slamming his laptop shut in the same motion. He does not bother to turn off the desktop, does not even bother to check if Silva is watching him even now. Instead, he moves over to his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

        It takes him some time to find paper and a pen, since neither is something he’s used since discovering the freedom offered by a computer. He grabs a book off his shelf to use as a makeshift desk, and he’s barely settled onto the bed before he begins to write. His hand cramps up quickly, whether from the speed with which he writes or how tightly he grips the pen, he doesn’t know. But when he is at this point, all discomforts are easy to ignore as extraneous, and so he pushes forward, just as he has for all of his life.

* * *

        As the stack of papers in his bedroom keep getting higher, so does the body count. Each is preceded by a puzzle and a challenge ( _come find me_ , _come find me_ , come find me), but Silva is never there when he arrives. Instead, all he finds are pieces of _himself_ , on a body with intricate patterns carved into skin.

        Bond might not have wanted to admit that this is about Q, but Silva has no similar qualms. The next time Q meets the Detective Inspector, it is to stand over the body of a pretty young lady (Strawberry Fields, an ordinary office worker with skin as pale as his). Bond looks so tired, although he manages to hide it well as he and his men try to salvage something out of another one of their failures. He gets hauled in for questioning, but it’s just as useful as the last time, which is to say not very. For all his eccentricities that should have made him stand out in any crowd, Silva is a ghost, somehow managing to stay hidden in a city filled with thousands of cameras.

        Perhaps that is why Q wants so desperately to find him.

        It’s ridiculous, he knows. Because Q also knows what will happen if he succeeds, and as Bond has predicted, it undoubtedly will not go well for him. Yet instead of packing up and moving to a remote corner of Greenland when he receives the next puzzle from Silva, he finds himself dropping everything and getting to work. It doesn’t even matter that Silva doesn’t even communicate with him anymore, simply sending him the puzzle before sauntering away, confident that Q will be following like the proverbial moth to a flame.

        There’s a certain thrill he gets each time, especially as the puzzles become more intricate and the time it takes to solve it decreases. It’s a thrill that is a sign of obsession (and it is an obsession; a kinder word for it would just be a lie, and he knows what Silva would think about that) with Raoul Silva, and it’s not just because thinking back to their time together makes his cheeks redden and his long-dormant sex drive flare to life. It’s not that Silva is dangerous because he doesn’t actually have a death wish. No, it’s the fact that even though he knows he should stay as far away from Silva as possible, he is already trapped because Silva _challenges_ him. Silva keeps him from getting _bored_.

        And he is bored. He is so goddamned bored. And for the first time, he doesn’t have to rely on himself to come up with something to do when he is tormented by insomnia for long hours because someone _else_ is supplying him with a challenge. Someone who is brilliant and capable of pushing him to his limits, someone who for the first time makes him feel like he has something to _prove_ again.

        There’s a part of him that knows he should stop, that he should settle for what he has. A career that offers the occasional challenge, a life that is unsatisfactory but at least it is a life. He’s risking both of those right now, but he has to. He has to because it’s not enough, and it hasn’t been enough for a very long time if he is to be honest with himself. Even the high he gets from solving one of Silva’s puzzles is temporary at best, crawling away as soon as he comes across his prize. He’s not interested in the next body, the next piece of him (Aleister Le Chiffre, a financer with a skill for numbers that rivals his own) lying cold and empty on the floor of wherever Silva has sent him. He’s interested in the man himself, but more than that he wants….

        He wants _validation_. It’s not enough that Silva is interested in him; he wants the man to be bloody _impressed_ with him too. And if it is ridiculous for him to want to find Silva, it is downright alarming to want the respect of a man who is terrorizing an entire city with garish murders. But then, Q has always craved the praise of people who were better than him, a task made difficult by the simple fact that there aren’t that many people who satisfy that criteria. But Silva has proven himself – to Q’s annoyance – not only more skilled with a computer, but more than capable of running circles around him mentally. He’s not used to having to chase a story like this, but Silva is making him work so hard and giving him absolutely nothing in return. Nothing, at least, except a body for the stories that he has no interest in writing in the first place (Sévérine Marnay, a strikingly elegant lady whose bloodless corpse accentuates her wine red lips).

        And that’s what gets him the most about this entire gruesome business. Silva is so intelligent, so disturbingly _brilliant_ , and yet he would rely on similarities between the victims and himself that are so obvious, so… superficial? Before, it had taken weeks just to identify a discernible pattern, and now Silva is making it so easy. Granted, he does so in a way that makes it impossible for the police to predict his next victim (Alec Trevelyan, a man with no history but dark green eyes that stare blankly at the world), but something still feels off about the whole thing. All of this adds to Q’s suspicion that they’re all being led on a chase, that this is just a distraction from some greater purpose. By focusing the police on Q, Silva is able to obfuscate his true goal. By focusing Q on the puzzles, Silva is able to keep him from digging deeper.

        _Well aren’t you clever?_ Silva purrs, pulling the pen out of his ink-stained hands and pressing him down into the bed. He knows he should try to push the man off, the heavy weight quickly going from uncomfortable to unbearable, but he’s frozen as Silva’s lips brush against his racing pulse. _What else have you figured out?_

        _Not much_ , he tries to say, but the words die as cold fingers tease the top button at his collar. He can’t help but feel pathetically proud that he is able to get the next words out. _You’re not exactly giving me much to work with._

        A depreciating laugh, which he forgets to be angry about because that same button is now being undone, exposing his collarbone for Silva’s frank but appreciative inspection. _But that’s the point, is it not?_ _You know that already._

        _You’re hiding something_ , he replies, a statement so obvious that he would be embarrassed by it if he wasn’t already busy being embarrassed of the way his skin reddens so readily when Silva runs a nail across his clavicle.

        _We’re all hiding something. It’s your job to figure out what that is_ , Silva murmurs. _But just be warned, you might not like what you find._

        _That’s hardly the point_ , he gasps, desperate for release but not sure what form it will take. _It’s about the truth._

        This causes Silva to pull back, looking sharply disappointed and perhaps even a little angry. Or more than a little. It’s the same anger that he saw when Silva accused him (correctly) of lying, a hatred that threatens to consume everything in its path. _Are you really so naïve to believe that there’s something as simple as a truth in this world? Perhaps it is time for someone to show you the consequences of such a mistake, Mr. Lyon._

        Q jerks awake, sending papers flying everywhere. He knows that if he doesn’t act quickly, it will take him a ridiculous amount of time to put everything back in their proper order, but he does not move. He cannot move. He can barely even breathe. Instead he just sits there, hunched slightly over his knees as he tries to forget the feeling of Silva’s breathy laugh on his cheek and the tip of a knife sinking into his chest.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I’m not chasing him,” Q denies weakly. “I’m chasing the story.”_
> 
> _“No, you’re not. You’re chasing him, and you don’t even realize it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to Isanah and ReadByRain15 for their always invaluable beta-work!

         Vivid dreams of his untimely demise or not, it’s still not enough to prevent Q from acting like a well-trained monkey when Silva’s next message comes through. But whether it is because the man has upped his game or because some flickering remnant of common sense is holding him back, it takes far longer for him to solve this one. By the time he reaches the dump site, Detective Inspector Bond and his men have been there for hours, although not long enough to move away a very familiar body with long locks of dark hair.

        “Fuck,” Bond snarls as Q turns a very violent shade of green. “Don’t you go be sick on the crime scene, Lyon.”

        “No promises,” he just manages to mumble as he backs as far away from the corpse as he can. It’s strange how after everything he has seen (has _been_ through) on this story alone, he could still be so easily affected. But then all those people… he hadn’t known them, not _personally_. Which is not to say that they did not matter because of course they did ( _do_ ), but there’s still a dramatic difference when the victims are strangers compared to someone he had known, had greeted warmly when she came through the office. Some people thought her mouth a little too wide, but what did it matter when she was always smiling so brightly?

        Bond seems satisfied that Q is not going to vomiting any time soon, as he shakes his head and says, “Paris Carver. You know her.” It is not a question.

        “Yes,” he replies quietly. Elliot Carver might have been a walking cesspool of corruption, but his wife… she was kind. Even though she _knew_ she was nothing but a trophy to the arse, she was still kind to the people who worked at his paper. “She didn’t deserve this.”

        “Did any of them?” is the rough reply, and then Q is gasping as Bond grabs him by the wrist. No one dares (or perhaps wants to) stop them as Q is dragged into the empty hall, and although Bond doesn’t quite slam him into the wall, it’s a very close call. Only the shock keeps him from squirming as the Detective Inspector looms over him, trapping him against the wall with no place to go. “What do you _know_?”

        “I don’t know anything!” he snaps, and it’s not entirely a lie. For everything he has done, what he actually knows about Silva is so slight that he is really quite ashamed. But it’s not entirely the truth either because he knows, god, he _knows_ that this is different. This one is personal, it has to be because of all the people in the world with hair like his, why _her_? But then why would Silva do such a thing? A message? It doesn’t seem like something Silva would do, except then it rather does because the man is a fucking sick _psychopath_ , and the only person who hadn’t received the memo on that is Q himself.

        Some of his self-loathing must appear on his face because while Bond doesn’t back away, his closeness is not quite as threatening anymore. The anger is replaced by pity, which is not much of an improvement because he thinks he would prefer well-founded rage to being lectured. “You have to stop chasing him.”

        “I’m not chasing him,” Q denies weakly. “I’m chasing the story.”

        “No, you’re not. You’re chasing _him_ , and you don’t even realize it.”

        He shakes his head, not sure who he is trying to convince at this point. Whoever it is, they don’t believe him. “They’re the same thing.”

        “They’re really not.” Bond’s tone is softer, almost cajoling. It doesn’t really suit him, this attempt at persuasion, but clearly the man is desperate enough to try (and Q doesn’t entirely understand why). “Look, do yourself a favor and don’t pursue this any longer. I’m sure you have enough material for a story, and I’ll even give you an exclusive when we arrest him.”

        “ _If_ you arrest him,” Q can’t help but correct. Considering how Silva has been three steps ahead of them this entire time, it has to be said.

        The Detective Inspector levels a glare at him, which makes him feel better because that is the Bond that he knows from this and other previous investigations. Still, it doesn’t stop Bond from pointing out what they both already know. “You don’t have to do this.”

        But that’s where Bond is wrong, although Q is kind enough to avoid contradicting the man by changing the subject. “I have a job to do, just as you do, Detective Inspector.”

        Bond snorts, unimpressed with his excuses. Because they are just excuses, no matter how he tries to dress them up, and the Detective Inspector is one of the few people in the world who sees straight through him. “Your job doesn’t require you to put yourself in danger like this. Besides,” Bond just has to add, “I’m starting to think that this isn’t actually about your job anyway.”

        Q isn’t given the opportunity to respond as his wrist is released. He realizes belatedly that he’s shaking slightly, and it’s not just because Bond is still crowding him, making him feel like a trapped animal. No, Bond is not the one who has him trapped, but may be the only one who can untangle him from this mess.

        “You have to stop before you get yourself killed,” Bond says flatly, and when the man turns and walks back to where Paris Carver lays dead and rotting, Q cannot help but feel a sense of strange, incomprehensible _loss_.

* * *

        “Q, I’ve been worried.”

        “So I’ve heard,” he mumbles, massaging his temples in the hope that it would help his headache go away. He’s already dosed himself with enough Earl Grey to drown a cat, but he knows no amount of caffeine will make a difference at this point. That is what happens when one substitutes sleep for staring at the wall, except instead of seeing the mint green paint that the previous occupant had left, he sees dead bodies. Paris, Trevelyan, Marnay, Le Chiffre, Fields, Grishenko… so many dead, and for no apparent reason except that they resembled him in some tiny, insignificant way. And finally, _finally_ the guilt seems to be catching up to him. It hardly matters that Silva would have killed _someone_ regardless because those people were specifically chosen _because of him_.

        It’s no wonder that he hasn’t slept in three days. Sometimes he wonders if he will ever be able to sleep again.

        “Q…” Eve’s voice trails off as she tries to gently push the papers he is reading aside. He clings stubbornly to them though; they’re profiles of Silva’s six most recent victims, although there’s only substantial information on five because he hasn’t yet been able to find anything on Trevelyan. Any other day, he would have already read and processed everything on those papers, but right now he seems incapable of comprehending anything. This includes what Eve is saying, which explains her sigh and slightly desperate, “I think you need to take a break.”

        “I can’t,” he replies automatically. Eve says nothing, and while Q would normally appreciate the silence, it’s so weighted in disappointment that he puts down the papers and removes his glasses, hoping that maybe this will help stop the world from spinning around him. It doesn’t, not in the slightest, so he closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath.

        For a moment, he considers telling her everything. He considers telling her what happened with Silva that night, how terrified yet fascinated he was when Silva had initiated that kiss, fascinated enough to deepen it, desperate for something _more_. He considers showing her all the little puzzles that Silva has been sending him, the ones whose solutions lead him to the dead bodies, each just as terrible as the last. He considers confessing that he always feels let down that Silva isn’t there to greet him, to take hold of him by the waist and pull him so close that he can barely breathe. He considers admitting that one night, not sure of what to do with himself anymore, he had taken a knife and _cut himself_ , just the gentlest of cuts but enough to have him sitting at his computer in silent horror, terrified of what had become of him. Everything in his life is about Silva, whether it is understanding the man or understanding _himself_ and his obsession with someone who probably wants to skin him alive.

        And he wants to stop. He does so very much want to stop, just like Bond and Eve and probably everyone in the _world_ has told him to, with the exception of Silva. But that is precisely the point. It’s all about what a deranged serial killer wants and he’s completely helpless to resist because he likes the attention. He likes being the only one who survived (for now), the one who Silva keeps coming back to, the one who could be _different_. He sees it and recognizes it as utterly _wrong_ , yet he is unable to stop himself, even knowing that it will destroy not only him but people who are not involved and should not have to be.

        He opens his mouth, ready to tell her every sordid detail of the past weeks, and finds himself repeating quietly, “I _can’t_.”

        Eve’s face falls, and it’s not just because of what he’s saying. Because in that single word, he manages to convey all the despair that he feels, and truly it is that. She murmurs comforting words, but he can barely hear it; it’s not like he deserves her reassurances anyway. Not after what he has done, not after what he has _become_.

        With shaking fingers, he puts his glasses on again, wincing as the world comes into focus but makes his head ring. He’s become used to pushing through the pain though, so he reaches out to take the top paper, scanning over the words that he has read probably a dozen times by now. Eve is still saying something, but suddenly it fades into the background as everything in the world narrows to a single line (British consulate, _Bolivia_ ), and then he is scrambling to his feet.

        “Q,” Eve says with ill-concealed desperation, trying to hold him back, but he grabs his parka and slips out of her grasp without another word.

* * *

        Four tube transfers, one taxi, three buses, and two exhaustion-related dizzy spells later, Q ends up at an internet café. It’s a risk, he knows, but seeing how the risk of irate intelligence agencies tracking him down is significantly lower than that of a highly skilled hacker-slash-serial killer watching over his every move at his flat, he is willing to chance it.

        It’s been some time since he’s rooted through MI6’s systems, but sadly not much has changed ( _improved_ ). Any other day, he might have sent a chiding message to one of the techs with some suggestions for how to tighten security, but he barely has enough energy left to hone in on his one very specific goal, let alone make such altruistic gestures.

        He only lingers long enough to confirm his suspicions and find the next link to the chain. Two buses and one tube ride later, he is at a second café where he quickly pillages MI6 for more information. He repeats this several more times, his insides twisting as he realizes just how close he is to understanding what Silva is doing.

        When he is finished, he doesn’t go home. Instead, he stays at a hotel, where he stares at hideous wallpaper as he lies in bed, trying to figure out his next move. When Silva’s hands ghost across his chest, he shrugs it off in irritation, not interested in the distraction. Because that is what all of this is, and he suspects that he’s not the only one who realizes it. That is why it is time to go to the source, even though it might very well end up with him in a dank cell. Still, he thinks firmly as he finally gives into a dreamless sleep borne of sheer exhaustion, it has to be preferable to whatever Silva has planned for him.

        (Or so he tries to tell himself, with diminishing success.)

* * *

        “Mr. Lyon?” Q blinks, looking up to see a tired, rumpled looking man striding quickly into the room that he had been shown to. He starts to stand, but is quickly waved back down as the man takes the seat across from him, before holding out that same hand for him to shake. “Bill Tanner, Chief of Staff.”

        “Chief of Staff?” he blurts out before he can stop himself, eyebrows rising at the unexpected title.

        Tanner smiles grimly. “You were expecting someone else?”

        The question is mild, but loaded all the same. Q tries to think of a tactful way of explaining his surprise, before finally settling for saying, “Well, I wasn’t expecting you, considering….” His voice trails off as he looks pointedly at the door, where chaos reigns on the other side. He hadn’t known what to expect when he had shown up at MI6, but it wasn’t this. This plainly wasn’t normal office activity, as there were too many people who looked lost and confused, as if they were trying to put together an organization that had recently come apart.

        Tanner’s smile is fixed in place as he follows Q’s gaze. “We’re going through a bit of a transition at the moment. Recent management changes and the like. It’s nothing to worry about. Still, I was under the impression that you were here for some information of a delicate nature.”

        “Of a sort,” he responds, returning his attention to the Chief of Staff. In this low lighting, he looks absolutely terrible, which begs the question of why he is in this room with Q when he is obviously needed outside. Surely the Chief of Staff would have better things to do than talk to journalists (like getting some rest, considering how the man looks like he hasn’t slept in three days), although Q has to admit that this isn’t exactly an ordinary visit. “I’m looking for information on Raoul Silva.”

        “Yes, he has been all over the news as of late. But what makes you think MI6 would have information about him? Horrific as his recent killings are, that is purely a domestic matter.”

        _Yet here you are_ , Q just manages not to say. He doesn’t usually have this much self-control, but there’s something about Tanner that is _calming_. It’s not exactly the first word one would associate with MI6’s upper management, but somehow it’s a perfect description of the man sitting before him. From anyone else, Tanner’s question might have seemed patronizing, but now it simply seems reasonable, like he really is just trying to understand why Q felt it necessary to come here when, as had been pointed out, Silva’s actions have been limited to British soil.

        Q is glad that Tanner can’t see his fingers tapping an erratic pace against his leg. It’s a nervous tic of his, one that has become worse as of late (for good reason). But he knows that he’s come too far to back away now, so he looks Tanner in the eyes and says, “Ms. Fields. She worked at the British consulate in Bolivia, did she not?”

        “If you say so.”

        “She was also MI6.” Tanner is silent, his face carefully blank, and Q takes that as an invitation to continue. Not that he requires an invitation at this point, since once he finds himself talking he doesn’t think he will be able to stop. “When Ms. Fields was in Bolivia, she was investigating the activities of one Mr. Aleister Le Chiffre, whom MI6 believed was financing international terrorism. One of his clients was a Russian terrorist group, who employed a computer specialist by the name of Boris Grishenko. Mr. Grishenko, in turn, has connections to one Alec Trevelyan, a former MI6 agent who defected in 1995, and who by all accounts no longer existed until the day his body turned up in London, a victim of a very peculiar serial killer.”

        “How fascinating,” Tanner replies calmly, but doesn’t ask how Q knows any of this. He also doesn’t summon any guards to arrest him, or pull a gun on him, which is not actually as reassuring as Q had hoped it to be.

        Still, it’s too late to be worrying about that, so he doesn’t hesitate. “Indeed. It is Mr. Trevelyan who interested me at first, considering how there is no information on him anywhere in the public records. I assume that is Mr. Grishenko’s doing, seeing how he is actually quite good at covering people’s tracks, including his own. But then who else would be able to connect him to MI6, except someone who is or at least _was_ also MI6?”

        “So you think this has something to do with MI6.” It is no longer a question, but almost a confirmation of everything he is saying.

        “Mr. Silva did originally use former MI6 locations as his drop sites. I did have my doubts, as I had thought the man to be more subtle than that, but perhaps subtlety was never the point. Perhaps it was all a message for MI6.” One that was not only difficult to figure out without having the knowledge base that MI6 possessed, but one with connections to _something else_ , something tangible and so obvious that the police would have no choice but to focus on it.

        Something like _himself_.

        Because he had always thought it odd, why someone of Silva’s intelligence would choose victims with connections to him that are so patently evident, even if it is in the most meaningless ways. But by doing so, Silva has been able to direct the police investigation away from his true intentions towards MI6. And not just the police investigation, he has to concede, but himself as well. Between the clever puzzles and his crushing fear of what Silva had planned for him, he had not taken the opportunity to look as closely as he should have at the victims. And why should he have? There had been nothing special about the previous victims before Grishenko, nothing remotely related to MI6. They had all been perfectly ordinary people with ordinary lives, until they had the misfortune of being caught up in the firefight between MI6 and someone with a personal vendetta.

        Or at least, that is what he assumes it to be. Tanner’s silence has long moved away from the realm of mildly uncomfortable, and it’s enough to nearly make him falter in his conviction. At the time, when he had been putting the pieces together, it had seemed to make such perfect sense. But after saying everything out loud, only to get that long, steady look from Tanner, he starts to wonder if perhaps he is reading too much into these things. Even he has to admit that the connections are tenuous enough that they could mean any number of things, not just what he chooses to read into them. What if he is simply looking for a way to shift the guilt away from himself, to take away his accountability for Silva’s most recent victims? What if-

        “So given everything that you have told me, Mr. Lyon, what exactly do you need us for?”

        Q nearly sighs in relief, but once again just manages to hold it in although his heart is racing madly. The last time it had beat this hard, there had been a knife caressing the skin just over it, and the thought sends a shiver down his back. It doesn’t stop him from concluding, “I think Mr. Silva is former MI6. Only someone with MI6 ties would know of Mr. Trevelyan’s defection, after all.”

        Tanner’s face is still impressively unreadable as he points out, “MI6 had many people working for it back in 1995. Do you propose we look at them all?”

        “No, I would suggest looking at Station H.”

        “Would you really?”

        “Ms. Marnay seems to have had some connections to the area.” Q had come to suspect that she had a connection to Silva himself after finding no direct link between MI6 and her, the only one of the group… except Paris, at least, but Q knows he is the sole blame for her death. He hadn’t actually looked further into Paris’s background, but in the end, he decided he didn’t need to. There is a time to trust his instinct, and it had been adamant that Paris was about him and him alone. That is something he will have to take up with Silva himself, if he is ever given the opportunity to do so. Although speaking of opportunities… Q stares at Tanner and decides that he really has nothing left to lose. “That assumes MI6 does not already know who he is.”

        This finally earns him a tangible reaction, although quite predictably, it is not a pleasant one. “I could have you arrested, you do realize.”

        “You could,” Q says, both his tone and mouth dry. “But I don’t think you will.”

        Tanner continues to give him a look that can only be described as inscrutable, and Q wonders if that is the look the man levels at erstwhile employees before giving them the sack. Just as he is wondering if he has enough time to dive out a window and into the Thames, Tanner stands and holds out his hand again, the gesture so unexpected that all Q can do is take his hand numbly. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lyon. I must be off now, but Charlotte will see you on your way.”

        “I… thank you?” he asks, but by the time he gets the words out he’s already facing Tanner’s back as the Chief of Staff leaves the room. It seems like nobody is willing to finish a conversation with him anymore these days, but honestly, Q can’t really blame them.

* * *

        Q can, however, blame them for this.

        “What the _fuck_ are you doing?!” he demands as he opens his door, only to find his flat invaded by police officers ripping out each and every one of his computers with brutal efficiency. In the middle of the chaos is Bond, who is watching their good work impassively.

        “Evidence,” the Detective Inspector says flatly as Q stands there, probably looking comical with his wide-open mouth but too horrified to care. “We have reason to believe that there is evidence material to a criminal investigation in your flat.”

        “Evidence material to a criminal investigation… you must be _joking_ ,” he sputters, whirling around to see his laptop being shoved into what appears to be a trash bag. “Be _careful_ with those, they’re worth more than your goddamn pensions combined-”

        “No, Mr. Lyon, I am not joking,” Bond replies once again, and honestly how _does_ the man move so silently because the next thing Q knows, Bond is standing right next to him.

        The heavy hand on his shoulder makes him flinch, although it’s not nearly enough of a distraction from the desecration of his computers systems. He tries to shrug it off, but Bond is unyielding, the grip tightening instead. Luckily for the bastard, Q has no interest in humiliating himself further as he snaps, “So this is what it comes down to, Detective Inspector? This is how you plan on keeping journalists from reporting on your investigations?”

        “Come off it, Q, you know it has nothing to do with that.” Bond forces him to turn, and he can see how angry the man looks. “You have a goddamn death wish, that’s up to you, but there are other people dying here. And if you’ve been withholding evidence that could have saved their lives, that’s on you.”

        Q gapes at the man, and it takes everything in him not to shriek. Rather than answer Bond’s accusation directly, he just shakes his head and says, “You cannot _do_ this. You have no-”

        “Can. Am,” Bond cuts him off frostily. “And I probably should have done it a lot sooner.”

        He’s shaking now, not from the fear that has been his constant companion since his fateful encounter with Silva but with his own rage, but before he can tell Bond to go and fuck himself, his phone rings. Everyone stops what they’re doing in order to stare at him, or more precisely, to stare as the Detective Inspector reaches into his jacket pocket – personal space be damned – and pulls out his mobile without a word. Sharp blue eyes narrow at the screen, which is then shoved at him (caller unknown). “Answer it, and put it on speaker.”

        Q doesn’t move. He just stares furiously at Bond, hands kept firmly at his side. There’s no point to being stubborn, but he has no interest in making the arse’s job any easier right now. This forces the blond to growl and jam the answer button himself, before grabbing Q’s hand and shoving the phone into it. Although neither Q nor Bond says anything, the room is quickly filled with the familiar, lilting voice that haunts all his dreams (and most of his waking moments). “Hello, clever boy.”

        “Hello,” he answers stiffly, looking up at Bond. The Detective Inspector’s expression is still harsh and angry, and even though Q knows that it is well-deserved, he finds himself saying, “You do realize that I have company over at the moment, Mr. Silva.”

        There are a few angry murmurs from said company, but all Silva does is laugh. “Let Mr. Bond and his men listen. You won’t find me,” Silva scoffs, the last sentence addressed squarely at the police officers invading his flat. “You also won’t find anything in Mr. Lyon’s things.”

        “Is that why you’re calling? To exculpate your friend?” Bond barely grits out, skepticism coloring every single one of his words.

        “I wouldn’t call us friends,” Silva replies demurely, a sharp contrast from Q’s sudden rush of fury at being labeled in such a way. “Not as of yet, at least. But suppose I was a friend of yours, Mr. Lyon. It is traditional for friends to give gifts, no?”

        “Gift?” Q parrots, not liking the sound of that at all. “What are you talking about?”

        “Why, the gift I left at your office. You haven’t received it yet?” Silva makes a tsking sound. “I would hurry if I were you. Blood can be such a chore to get out of the carpet.”

        The phone drops from his numb fingers, and he feels like he is going to be sick. Silva is still talking, something about the best ways of removing stains, but all he can think of is Eve because knowing her, she’ll be the last one there because she was _always_ the last one there, and besides, this is about _him_ , isn’t it? If something happens to her, it will be on him, and Silva is making damn sure he knows that too.

        He barely notices as Bond barks out orders before leading him out, pushing him gently but firmly into the back of a police vehicle, and strapping him in when he makes no move to put on the safety belt. There’s someone else sitting there with him but he doesn’t care because what has Silva _done_ , to him to her to any of them? It’s enough to make him want to start screaming, but then the car is taking off in a dreadful lurch, driving them as quickly away from Silva’s mocking laughter as possible but not even close to fast enough.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I never thought this was a game, Bond.” Q’s voice is low and harsh, his entire being thrumming with rage. He didn’t even know he was capable of getting this angry, especially when his mouth tastes like sick and his head aches from the thick, heavy stench of blood and death. He feels seconds away from shutting down completely, but the very idea that anyone would think he is treating this as a game, as if he is too idiotic or naïve or callous to care that people have died… no. No, that is not something he will goddamn stand for. “If that is what you really think, then you don’t know anything about me.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to Isanah and ReadByRain15 for their wonderfully helpful beta-work!

        It’s not Eve. Q ends up vomiting anyway.

        Unlike Silva’s other victims, Bill Tanner has not been subjected to the killer’s artistic exercises. Instead, he’s been securely pinned to Q’s desk via a knife through the throat, and the blood is still dripping down the light-colored wood and into the dark green carpet he had always thought was hideous but was an absolute masterpiece compared to its current state.

        Bond is kind enough not to yell at him, instead thrusting a wastepaper basket in his general direction. He grabs it with shaking hands, although it’s a bit too late anyway as he stares with wide eyes at Tanner. The man is still wearing the same sky blue shirt and diagonally striped tie that Q had seen him in less than twelve hours before, although his black suit jacket has been removed and neatly draped on Q’s chair. His eyes stare wide and empty at the ceiling, and what a depressing last sight that must have been, considering how those tiles had not been cleaned in years. Mallory kept promising they would, but he never did, and-

        “Q.” He doesn’t know how many times Bond has tried to get his attention, but it must have been more than a few if the Detective Inspector has resorted to shaking him like a rag doll. This also serves to place Bond between Q and the body, blocking his view. Not that it matters when the image has been seared into his brain, but it’s enough to finally force him to look at Bond, swallowing hard. “Q, you have to calm down and talk to me. Who is that?”

        He opens his mouth but all that comes out is a strangled sound, his eyes already trying to look past Bond towards-

        Q jerks when Bond carefully turns his head back to face the Detective Inspector. Tanner’s eyes were also blue, he remembers belatedly, but a warmer, comforting shade. They’re not very comforting now though, and he wonders if the man had family, family that is sitting up late, waiting for him to come home. Or worse, maybe they’re so used to his late nights that they don’t even wait up any longer, and are fast asleep believing that he will be returning soon rather than-

        “Tanner,” he gasps out. “Bill Tanner. He’s MI6, he’s… he’s… oh my god….”

        “Breathe,” Bond orders steadily, and although it’s easier said than done, he just manages it. “Just breathe, Q. Did you know him personally?”

        Personally? Personally, what is that supposed to mean? Fuck, he feels like he’s going to be sick again, but he forces himself to set down the wastepaper basket as he keeps his eyes on Bond. “Today is the first time I met him, when I went to MI6 to get information. Tanner… he’s MI6’s Chief of Staff and the one who met with me.”

        Bond’s eyes widen as he processes this piece of information, and it’s no surprise when he mutters a heated _fuck_ , which at this point is a severe understatement. Finding out that Silva’s latest victim is MI6 is already serious enough, but _Chief of Staff_ …. Still, Bond is a professional and puts aside his shock to ask, “Why would MI6’s Chief of Staff meet with you?”

        This earns Bond a laugh that is borderline maniacal at this point. “That’s what I asked him. I didn’t get a very satisfactory answer.” Or any answer, really, and now it looks like he never will.

        “And why were you at MI6? What information did you think they had?”

        Under different circumstances, Q would have refused to answer, desperate to protect the story. But his present circumstances involve a man who he had spoken to only hours ago being dead on his desk, making it quite clear that Silva already knows what he’s up to. There’s no point in hiding anything when Silva is not only able to follow his every move but to get inside his mind so damn well, so he whispers, “I think Silva used to be MI6.”

        It’s a shame that Q is in absolutely no position to enjoy the look of surprise on Bond’s face, since he’s certain that it’s not an expression that gets much use. Bond doesn’t indulge in it for long though, quickly wiping his face clean of any emotion as he inquires, “And did Tanner agree?”

        “He didn’t say.” It’s not quite a lie, but it’s not the entire truth either. Q has no idea when he had become so skilled at all these deceptions. It’s a dramatic change from before, considering how he used to be interested in _presenting_ information, not hiding it. But once again, it is becoming clear that Silva has changed him in more ways than one. “Look, I… I don’t know anything else, all right? I told Tanner what I thought because I believed MI6 had answers, but he didn’t give me anything, and-”

        “And yet it was still enough to get him killed,” Bond cuts off sharply, resulting in Q letting out that pitiful strangled sound again. This time, Bond doesn’t stop him when he looks past him at Tanner, who still has not been removed from his desk. They’re photographing him, collecting evidence, but what is the point? Silva never leaves anything behind, and on the off-chance he does, it’s probably because the bastard _wanted_ them to have it.

        Everything that has happened is because Silva wants it to, except, just maybe, Q figuring out Silva’s link to MI6. But he still doesn’t have all of the pieces, still can’t see the complete picture, so the only thing he can say in response to that is, “You’ll have to ask Mr. Silva about that.”

        Bond’s expression hardens, but despite the anger (and there is so much of it), there is also concern, and Q wonders when that no longer was enough for him. Once he would have fallen hard for the man. Perhaps he already has in a way; who wouldn’t, when Bond is safety and stability and goddamn gorgeous as well. But now when he closes his eyes, all he can see (once the blood has been wiped away) is Silva, and it’s not just because the man is a threat to his long-term survival (if only that was all it is).

        The Detective Inspector sees it too, but he’s equally incapable of doing anything about it. If anything, Bond manages to make it worse when he says, “I hope you realize by now that this isn’t a game. There are real people at stake here, and-”

        “I never thought this was a game, Bond.” Q’s voice is low and harsh, his entire being thrumming with rage. He didn’t even know he was capable of getting this angry, especially when his mouth tastes like sick and his head aches from the thick, heavy stench of blood and death. He feels seconds away from shutting down completely, but the very idea that anyone would think he is treating this as a _game_ , as if he is too idiotic or naïve or callous to care that people have _died_ … no. No, that is not something he will goddamn _stand_ for. “If that is what you really think, then you don’t know anything about me.”

        Without asking for permission (not that he needs it), he shoves himself away from Bond, ignoring the shouts of the other officers. But nobody tries to stop him, especially when Bond tells them to leave him be. He has no intention of thanking the man for that small mercy though, not after what he said.

        It’s not far from his office to outdoors, but by the time he gets there his chest is heaving from exertion. The wind is bitterly cold, but he just stands there, his hand clasped over his mouth as he struggles to stay upright. Some curious bystanders glance over at him, but nobody stops to offer him any help, leaving him to shiver helplessly as he tries desperately to forget _everything_ about this night.

* * *

        “Q.” The look Eve gives him is one usually reserved for horror movie victims, although whether it is from his haggard appearance or the fact that he is even there, he has no idea. She’s not the only one who is staring at him, although unlike her efforts at sympathy, most of his colleagues do not even try to conceal their disgust. “You shouldn’t be here.”

        That is probably an understatement. He’s honestly surprised that Bond wasn’t hiding in the bushes, ready to forcibly tackle him should he be masochistic enough to go to work (but then that assumes the Detective Inspector wants anything to do with him still). He’s equally surprised that his own body hasn’t simply given up on him, collapsing in the shower or in the middle of the street before he could put himself (or anyone else) in further harm’s way. But he finds himself shrugging listlessly as he mumbles, “I didn’t know what else to do with myself.”

        This is true, although likely a sad proclamation on the state of his personal life. But his life has long revolved around work, with Eve being the only person he socializes with outside of the office. He supposes there are also his computers, but he doubts he will be getting those back anytime soon. Bond and his men were thorough, taking not only his desktop and laptop, but his hard drives and tablets. He’s probably lucky they didn’t take the television set and microwave while they were at it, although he hasn’t been in much of a position to enjoy either.

        Surprisingly, they had not taken his papers, scattered on the desk in his bedroom. Likely they were focused on electronics, never expecting the majority of his research to be handwritten, but it was not as if they had been hidden. Maybe they would have got to it if not for Silva’s call, but….

        The thought trails off there, at the reminder of Silva. He’s still trying to figure out what the man is trying to do. Was Tanner a warning, or just another distraction? Perhaps both, although that doesn’t quite seem right. Yet even as he tries to work through this latest question, there is a part of him that is horrified at why he even cares. To call Silva “dangerous” is to engage in gross understatements, but here he is. He can tell himself that it has nothing to do with the man, but at this point, Q is just too tired to bother with such a transparent lie.

        For her part, Eve is no doubt working herself into knots trying to come up with a way of politely escorting Q to the door without making a scene, so it’s no surprise that she’s sighing now at this impossible task. “Q, you shouldn’t… you need a break from this. You need… look, let me take you home, okay? Just give me a moment and I’ll walk you back.”

        He knows she is trying to be kind, but her offer just makes him want to scream. Isn’t it obvious that he’s here because he can’t be in his flat, where there is nothing to distract him from all the death that he has seen? Isn’t it obvious that he needs something to do, needs to be put to work rather than forced on some ‘break’ that will only drive him even more insane? Isn’t it obvious that pushing him back home is the emotional equivalent of pushing him back into Silva’s arms, the exact place he is trying so desperately to _escape_?

        The questions turn to ash on his tongue. Even as he stares at her helplessly, he can see Mallory watching from the doorway. He knows then that this is a lost cause, but rather than just give in completely, he has to ask, “My computer, I… I need to get something from it first.”

        He waits, fully expecting to be told that his computer has been taken by the police as “evidence.” Instead, Eve nods tiredly, pointing at the conference room. “We moved it over there, although you’re going to have to set it up. Let me take care of something real quick, and then we can get going.”

        Q isn’t sure if Eve is deliberately buying him some time, but he’s grateful nevertheless. He heads to the conference room as quick as he can, not able to take offense when everyone seems to draw away, as if he is a leper. He can’t exactly condemn them for that (but he doesn’t have to like it), and closes the door behind him. It doesn’t take him long to set up the computer and turn it on, although he nearly drops the monitor when it occurs to him that he’s lucky Tanner’s blood did not end up all over the keyboard. It’s a sickening thought to have, but he forces down his queasiness to input his password.

        Only to find that another puzzle has been left for him.

        “Oh.” It’s wholly inadequate, but he doesn’t know what else there is to say as he stares at the complex lines, enthralled in the challenge they present. In the blink of an eye, all his exhaustion and fear seems to melt away as he greedily takes in the code, fingers already itching to get to work. The elation doesn’t last long once he realizes that this… _this_ is what Silva had meant by his _gift_. Once again, the murder is simply a cover-up for the real thing, the gory sight so dramatic that the police had completely overlooked the man’s true intent.

        As quickly as he can, he fumbles for his phone. But rather than call the police or at the very least a travel agency to book a ship to get as far away as possible from this place, he holds it up to the screen and very deliberately takes a photo.

        He’s still staring at his phone, in shock and disbelief over what he is doing when there is a sharp rap on the door. The sound forces him from his daze, and he quickly powers down the computer while shoving his phone back into his pocket. For one fleeting moment, he seriously considers simply picking up the computer and throwing it at the wall, though whether that is to absolve himself of guilt, or a futile attempt to destroy his connection to Silva, it hardly matters. All he can do now is force himself to breathe before finally opening the door.

        “John Lyon?” Q blinks at the woman, who he has never seen before in his life but is clearly not above trying to make him feel guilty for being so slow at responding to her presence. “Your colleagues said you were in here. I have a delivery for you.”

        “A delivery?” The woman looks startled when, upon noticing the envelope she’s holding, Q gives it a look that is usually reserved for rabid vipers. “From whom?”

        The question hasn’t even left his mouth before he realizes what an idiotic question it is; of course it is not Silva, seeing how he’s already received the man’s most recent message. That doesn’t stop the woman from glancing at the envelope, and Q’s eyes are widening as he takes in the neatly printed label at the same exact time she reads out loud, “Mr. William Tanner. Must be important, looks like he paid extra for a rush delivery. Just sign here and-”

        Q has already stopped listening though, so her indignant protests fall on deaf ears as he grabs hold of the envelope and pushes past her. He knows he is being rude, but he doesn’t once look back to apologize to her or Eve as he flees the office, with what he is certain is Tanner’s final message held close to his chest.

* * *

        By the time he reaches his flat, Q is nothing but calm. There’s no real explanation for it, considering how nothing has changed in the past hour, but somehow everything that has haunted him over the last few weeks suddenly seems unimportant. Unhurried, he takes the time to hang up his coat and put something in the microwave, before settling himself down at the desk where his computers had been. With steady hands, he uses a letter opener to slice open the seal and pours the papers out.

        The papers are old, almost certainly originals rather than recent copies. Q starts to speculate as to why Tanner would do such a thing, considering the risks entailed, but soon it’s the last thing on his mind as he picks up the top sheet. It’s a record of a MI6 agent at Station H, a Tiago Rodriguez, who started quite young but by all accounts was brilliant at his job, whether it was with the traditional skillset of killing and running or more modern abilities, such as hacking and programming. But for all his brilliance, it had not stopped the head of Station H from turning him over when it was discovered that he had gone beyond the scope of his duties and was hacking the Chinese. It hadn’t been an easy decision to make, but according to Olivia Mansfield, it had ultimately been a necessary one.

        Considering everything that is happening, Q has a feeling that Rodriguez really does not agree.

        There’s nothing beyond 1997, the year that Mansfield had traded Rodriguez to the Chinese. Possibly MI6 had assumed the worst (or the best, depending on one’s point of view) and written the man off, never noticing when he had crawled away from whatever had been done to him. Never _wanting_ to notice, as that would have meant acknowledging what they had done to one of their own, meant acknowledging the dirty little secrets of the espionage world.

        But he had come back because there is no doubt in Q’s mind that Tiago Rodriguez _is_ Raoul Silva (his file contains no pictures, but the physical description certainly matches and besides, he is not about to doubt Tanner’s information when the man had almost certainly died for it), coming back with quite a vengeance. Silva had made sure to terrorize the populace right in MI6’s backyard, but for what purpose? By not making his ties to MI6 explicit, he had not embarrassed the agency, had not given the people a reason to turn against the intelligence communication. All their focus has been on the seeming ineptitude of the police force, so then what was the point of such spectacular murders? If Silva was only trying to send a message to his old handlers, then what-

        Q’s eyes widen as he notices a newspaper clipping, tucked at the back of the files. Despite it being far more recent than all the other documents, it is so short that it would have been easy to miss. But tucked away is an obituary for a Mrs. Olivia Mansfield, dated two days after Trevelyan had been found. There’s not much information about her past or how she passed, but the coincidence is not lost on him.

        _We’re going through a bit of a transition at the moment. Recent management changes and the like_ , Tanner’s calm explanation echoes through his mind. Could it be that Mansfield was still high up in MI6, and that the agency was suppressing the truth behind her death? Whatever their reason, it is plain that Rodriguez had avenged his betrayal in one way at least, although given that the man has continued to kill since, his revenge is not yet complete.

        Speaking of revenge, Q glances over at his phone, forgotten along with his dinner as he had lost himself in the papers. There is one more puzzle waiting for him, at least one more death that Silva has already prepared. A part of him already itches to start working on it, but then there is so much that he needs to do right now. From the very first page that he had read, he has been instinctively organizing the story, fitting in the pieces so that it flows smoothly from start to finish. He finally understands how to write this story, and as tempting as Silva’s “gift” is, the last thing he needs now is the distraction. He knows what he has to do now. He stands and retrieves the packet of papers that were left on his desk, untouched by the police.

        Without his computers taking up the space, it is easy to spread everything about, systematically combining the MI6 files with his own. It takes a while, but eventually he has a neat stack of papers top to bottom, and a second stack of blank papers ready for his use.

        Q takes in a deep breath, picks up his pen, and starts to write.

* * *

        He finishes.

        Normally, as soon as he finishes a story, there is always a sense of… it’s not quite dissatisfaction, but rather the nagging feeling he could do better. His instinct is always to immediately go back, to figure out what he has left out or where he is certain he has made errors, which would be a difficult thing to fix now considering how he has handwritten this entire piece. But this is as far from _normal_ circumstances as he can possibly get, so when he puts down his pen and stares blearily at what he has done, he has no desire to edit or make changes. It’s not so much contentment as a sense of completion, as if he knows that he will never write anything like this again.

        (And it’s not just because there’s a very real possibility that he’ll never have the chance to write ever again, if Silva gets his way.)

        He brushes the tips of his index and middle fingers along the final page, watching as the ink smears ever so slightly because it has not even had the time to dry yet. But he knows that while this story might be done, he is not. There is still one more thing that he has to do, and while it has nothing to do with the writing, it has everything to do with Silva.

        Q knows he should sleep, or better yet, he should call the Detective Inspector and hand everything he has over. Yet it is the thought of speaking to Bond that causes him to dismiss the possibility immediately. Even though he cannot really blame Bond for what was said, it’s created a rupture not just between them, but between Q and what feels like the rest of the world. It’s an extreme reaction to have, of course, but perhaps he finally understands that he cannot go back. He cannot go back to simply being good at what he does because now he knows what it is like to have something more. To have someone like Silva, who will push him, even if it is in all the wrong ways. That sort of thing is irresistible, even if it is a desire that nobody else in the world understands.

        But then, Q isn’t exactly looking for the world’s approval.

        That is why instead of doing the things that he should, Q does the thing that he _wants_ to. He reaches out for his phone, and there is no fear, no dread as he opens up the picture that he had taken. He doesn’t even feel tired, despite having been up for far longer than he should. But the exhaustion has by now turned into adrenaline, and it is that single-minded focus that allows him to solve Silva’s latest puzzle in record time despite not having a computer to work on. Which is good, as it quickly becomes apparent that he doesn’t have very much time left at all when the answer unfolds itself neatly, as if he has pulled a string and caused all the tangles to come falling apart.

        There is the usual information, namely a location that is very familiar to him. But there is also something more, not only an appointed time (two hours from now, although he’ll need at least an hour to get over there) but that one additional piece of information that Silva had previously withheld, the vital piece that could have saved lives.

        It is a name, the name of Silva’s next victim. Which in this case, is his own.

        _John “Q” Lyon._

* * *

        Deep down, Q knows that this is the only way this could have ended. Even putting aside the grisly killings and Bond’s warnings, it is so obvious that his death is also a part of Silva’s plan, despite having been let go the first time around. Yet still his mouth goes dry and his hands tremble as he again reads his name because knowing is different from seeing it spelled out so _clearly_ , except it’s not really clear at all.

        Because he also knows this: Silva is giving him the choice. And he has choices, he really does. He could run, or he could call Bond, give him the information he needs to take a dangerous serial killer down (although it’s doubtful that he would succeed; this is less a condemnation of the Detective Inspector and more an acknowledgment that all this time, Silva has always been at least one step ahead of everyone involved). Perhaps he could even contact Silva and beg for mercy, or better yet he could do nothing. Even if he does not run, Q knows that Silva will not come after him. The man will no doubt be disappointed, but Q will not suffer any consequences for it.

        Except he will. Because Silva will disappear, and while most people would think that is a good thing, Q is no longer one of them. He barely understands why. He doesn’t need Silva for his story anymore because he has the story, is _done_ with it, but suddenly all the sense of accomplishment slips away. There’s still something missing, but he doesn’t know what because he has all the facts, has put everything together and explained all the loose ends….

        No, that’s not right. There’s still one loose end that he has to understand, and it is the reason why he stands, almost mechanically, and wanders to his bedroom. His eyes linger on all the little things that he has gathered throughout his life, the stacks of books that lie scattered about and various wires and gadgets that constitute a veritable fire hazard. He wishes a bit wistfully that it would stop him, but it doesn’t. Instead, he pulls out clothing that would be fitting for a date before cleaning himself up, shaving and trying to tame his hair into some semblance of order (he fails on the latter, as always).

        Q hesitates, only once, when he picks up his keys. He turns then, looking at his flat and wondering how it suddenly seems so empty, and not just because the police have politely absconded with his computers. Has it always been this way, and he simply was not in a position to notice it? He supposes it no longer matters, but still, he pauses. Something doesn’t feel right, like he is missing something, and it takes him a few minutes to realize what it is.

        Slowly, deliberately, he pulls his phone from his pocket and puts it on top of the stack of papers that Tanner had sent to him. He picks up the second pile, substantially shorter but far more important because on them is the story that he has dedicated the last weeks of his life to. His fingers tremble then, perhaps from exhaustion but probably from dread, barely able to push the papers into an envelope.

        Then he tucks the envelope into his jacket and walks out. He doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be no update next week, as I am going to be on vacation. But at least I didn't leave on a cliffhanger, right...? (flees)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Hello, clever boy,” the voice breathes into his ear. “Should you really be alone here at this late hour?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to ReadByRain15 for the wonderful beta-work!

        Q arrives at the pub with fifteen minutes to spare. The area is just as he remembers it, except that it smells even worse than the last time he was here with Eve. He glances around for her even now, not sure if he is disappointed or desperately relieved when he does not see her. Nobody bothers to keep track of him as he slides into a booth in the darkest corner of the room, suddenly missing his phone because he lacks anything to do as he waits. His hands start to go for the envelope in his jacket, but he stops when someone slides in close, much too close, yet _not nearly_ -

        “Hello, clever boy,” the voice breathes into his ear. “Should you really be alone here at this late hour?”

        His heart seems to leap into his throat, and surely his companion must feel how quickly it races. Q would not be himself if he did not try to cover for it though, so he closes his eyes and replies, “I’m waiting for someone. He’s late.”

        “How rude of him,” Silva says, not commenting on the fact that he is hardly late. He is, in fact, exactly on time, but in terms of how long Q has been waiting for him since the last time they had met face to face, he is long overdue. He lacks the heart to scold the man for that, particularly when there is that appreciative look again, and Q has to exert himself mightily not to react with a bright red blush. “Especially considering how you went through the effort to look so fetching.”

        Q yearns to respond with a devastatingly witty remark, but the words seem to stick in his mouth so that he is incapable of saying anything at all. Silva must notice because he laughs – not a cruel laugh, more just politely amused – as he draws him up. Q is slightly unsteady on his feet after so many days without sleep, but the man is patient enough, leading him to the toilets. No one bats an eye at that, let alone tries to intervene, so Q is left waiting patiently as Silva locks the door.

        “What would you have done if I had called the police?” he asks, genuinely curious.

        The man turns to face him, eyebrows raised. Everything about him is exactly the same as Q remembers, down to the immaculate suit that makes Q feel like a pauper in comparison and a presence that is overwhelming at best. “I knew you wouldn’t.”

        “You don’t actually know everything,” he responds rebelliously because the bastard’s arrogance is truly revolting, but his petulance only prompts Silva to grin. It is not a pleasant expression, making him look rather like a corpse, and Q wonders if that is simply a convenient trick of the lighting or some long-term consequence of his time with the Chinese.

        “I know you,” Silva points out, and he is in absolutely no position to deny that. He doesn’t move as Silva pushes him against the wall, trapping him just as Bond did a few days back but with far more deadly intent. That intent is confirmed when the man holds up a syringe for his inspection, and when he makes no attempt to escape or protest or even ask what is in there, the needle is slipped smoothly into his arm. Whatever is contained, it causes his vision to dizzy alarmingly quickly, but Silva is there to catch him before he can fall to the floor, holding him with strong and gentle arms as he lets the drugs take him away.

* * *

        Q wakes up to find himself tied to a bed.

        There was a time that he would have been worried by how calmly he accepts the situation, as if waking up in such a manner is commonplace. Perhaps it is for some people, he really does not want to judge, but he is fairly certain that once he would have been rather disturbed at being in this position. Instead of reacting with alarm though, he asks, “Was that really necessary?”

        “I do try to be prepared for every contingency,” Silva replies. He attempts to crane his head to search for the man, but whatever was given to him has made all his limbs remarkably uncooperative. “And you looked like you could use the rest. How is your head?”

        “It’s fine.” It’s been so long since his head hasn’t pounded so painfully that he has to take a moment to appreciate it (because who knows when he will have another chance to do so?). This begs the question though. “How long was I asleep?”

        “Long enough. You have not been taking care of yourself.”

        There is something patently unfair about the man’s accusatory tone, considering how Q’s murder is likely part of his immediate plans. Q decides not to comment on it though, looking around as best he can. All he sees is the same red silk sheets, although they must be a different set because the one he had bled on the last time were taken by the police as evidence. Does Silva buy a new set for each of his victims, or is this special treatment reserved solely for Q? It’s such an egotistical question that he is embarrassed even to think it, so he instead observes in what he hopes is a sufficiently unimpressed manner, “You have very fine taste.”

        “Of course.” There is the scrape of a chair being dragged closer, and finally Silva comes into view. The man looks him over as slowly as the knife had been dragged over his naked skin, and oh, Q is realizing rather belatedly that he has been stripped of his clothing again. So much for dressing well before his untimely demise. He shivers when a cold hand reaches out to stroke his thigh, the touch surprisingly not possessive but almost worshipful as Silva continues, “How else to explain your presence, dear boy?”

        “I can think of several reasons.” Yet not one of them comes to mind, his mind short-circuiting pleasantly. No matter how sternly he tries to tell himself to _get it together_ , all his senses (and his common sense in particular) seem to fade away in the face of Silva’s onslaught.

        The dance along his skin is limited to his right leg, but it quickly becomes his entire world, as if there is nothing else that could possibly compare. The man’s skin is so cold but it feels like he is on fire to the point that he is practically writhing, and he cannot hold back the pathetic whimper when Silva cruelly draws away.

        And then he is so very cold again, all the warmth draining straight out when Silva holds up a sheaf of papers, with handwriting that he recognizes very well. “I read your story.”

        “Oh.” He struggles to come up with a coherent response. “Did you like it?”

        Q immediately regrets the question, and not just because Silva’s face has darkened, forcing him to remember just how dangerous the man is. “It was not the story I was expecting.”

        “That hardly matters,” he replies instantly. If he’d thought Silva frightening before, he is downright petrified by how enraged the man appears now, especially as it seems to border on hatred. The man looks _insane_ , but it’s not enough to stop him from persisting, “Nobody gets to pick and choose the story that is written, not even you. That is not the point of journalism.”

        What a lie _that_ is. How many times has Q been asked to compromise the integrity of a story because someone important had objected to what was in it? He has lost his job more than once for refusing, and walked off several more in protest. More often than not, he had been the only one. Principles mattered but not as much as a steady paycheck in such a competitive field, where there was always someone who was willing to butcher the story in order to please the management.

        “Then why bring it to me? Why not send it to your editor or his little secretary?”

        The threat is clear in the way Silva practically hisses the words, and Q wonders if he should feel ashamed that their safety never even factored in his decision-making. There aren’t too many people in the world that he cares for still, and perhaps he should use it as an excuse to answer the man’s question. But lying wasn’t the point in coming here. “Because I wrote it for you. I wrote it to show you who you are.”

        Silva’s fury is overwhelming, and every part of him wants to either flee or curl up in terror. He can do neither though, can do nothing as Silva leans in to snarl, “You? What right do you have to show _me_ anything? You forget your place if you think you are capable of anything when it is I who could hurt you right now.”

        “I don’t doubt it,” he replies quietly, casting a pointed look at his tied wrists. He wishes he could be more proud that he is able to maintain such control despite his fear, but that raises the question of whether he truly is scared. He knows he should be, he knows he in a way _is_ , that survival instinct straining for him to escape from this situation. Yet there is also a calm that allows him to continue, “But let’s be honest; you’ll do it anyway.”

        This seems to dispel some of the anger, as Silva transitions so quickly to jeering disdain that Q is unable to keep up. “Oh, you clever, clever boy,” the man mocks, reaching out to smooth his hair down as if he is a particularly stupid child. “You know nothing of how much pain a person can suffer.”

        “You refer to your time in China?”

        “My time in China,” Silva repeats, grabbing a fistful of his hair and pulling hard so that their heads are forced close together. His eyes water at the agony in his scalp, and a finger reaches out to catch one of his tears as Silva whispers, “What do you know of pain, safe as you are in your little flat with your little job, covering little stories about things that do not matter? How long would you have lasted with the beatings and the shocks and the shackles pulling you tight, to the point that you wanted to die? But they would never let that happen, for what would be the fun of tormenting a corpse? So they’d force the food into your mouth until you vomited it all up, force you to live when death would be a reprieve. You dare to speak of _pain_ when you haven’t lain on the concrete floor, listening to the screams of the others around you until you realize that you’re screaming along with them? Death, even a long one, is a mercy compared to that.”

        He’s gasping for breath now, and each word that echoes through his mind brings its own special ache. But Silva is right; it is nothing compared to what the man must have gone through in China, yet he still rasps, “And that is why you came back.”

        For a moment, he fully expects Silva to snap his neck with an easy flick of a wrist, except that would be far too easy. The man does not let go, but he does loosen his grasp enough so that Q’s neck is no longer pulled taut, at risk of breaking with a careless gesture. Technically he knows that it isn’t _actually_ that easy to break a neck, even for someone of Silva’s substantial strength, but knowing and accepting are entirely two different things. In any case, Q is not completely out of danger yet, as the free hand dances across his clavicle, as if to emphasize how easy it would be to fracture other bones without killing him quite yet.

        “I came back for her,” Silva agrees, and there’s no need to ask who “her” is when there is so much venom behind the word. “I was her favorite, you know. She recruited me, and I repaid her for that by being the best. I got her so much information and she knew, of course she did, but she was smart enough not to ask where it came from. That way, when I was found out, she could deny it so quickly. Which she did. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

        His mind flicks back to Tanner’s files, with their reports and recommendations and praise for someone who was still not important enough to protect in the end. He tries to nod and when that fails, voice his agreement, but Silva is not interested in his agreement anyway.

        “I wanted to ask her. I wanted to ask her why she would betray me like that,” Silva confides breathlessly. “But when I saw her, I realized that it did not matter. She was so old, so… _tiny_. It was almost hard to believe that a little old woman like her could ever have caused me that much pain.”

        “That didn’t stop you from killing her though.”

        “I did it quickly. I could have made it worse, I _should_ have made it worse, but I didn’t.” There’s something almost defensive in the words, but why would Silva feel it necessary to justify what he has done? He’s murdered so many people, _innocent_ people who had nothing to do with what MI6 had done to him, yet now he tries to rationalize it? Perhaps despite all the guilt he lays down at her feet, he still cared for her. Cared enough to want to know why, even though he must have known why by now. That she was trying to keep the peace, a peace she would give up everything for, no matter how much it hurt her.

        And Q does think that it hurt her. Silva would never believe it if he said it, but everything she ever wrote about Tiago Rodriguez spoke of genuine affection for the boy she had hand-picked and raised into an asset. The problem was when he became more than that. She had let it go too far, committed the cardinal sin of caring to the point of allowing Rodriguez to think himself invulnerable when everyone was disposable in that business. Everyone could (and _would_ ) be sacrificed for the sake of the greater good.

        Including her. Except for a few inches of column space, Olivia Mansfield’s death had gone almost unnoticed, lost in the death that Silva had been raining down upon London. MI6 had deliberately chosen not to recognize her death because acknowledging her death would have been the same as acknowledging what had been done to Tiago Rodriguez. It would have required admitting that giving Rodriguez to the Chinese was _wrong_ , despite it being so right too. But nothing was black and white in this world, nothing was so easy, and for all the reasons there were to trade Rodriguez away, there are so many reasons for protecting one’s own.

        Not least of which is what would happen when the prodigal son returned to wreak his revenge.

        “And that’s why you committed all those murders.” It is not a question because there is no need to ask, but getting a confirmation is always a good habit to have as a journalist. “It was just a cover, something so gruesome that nobody would be looking as you hunted her down.”

        Silva doesn’t respond, just stares at him with haunted eyes as he finally lets go of Q’s hair, letting him flop back gracelessly. There’s something almost… sad about those eyes, something so painfully human, but it’s not enough to make him forget that the man is a serial killer, regardless of his justification. That makes it easy to continue, “And you weren’t just retaliating against her. You were seeking vengeance on all of MI6. You put them in a position where they would know that it was a former agent killing in London, knowing that they could never admit it because it would be too humiliating. You toyed with them, taking out people related to their operations, but they could never put their full resources into hunting you down or people would notice. It might have been their worst case scenario, if you had been caught and could tell the world what had happened to you, exposed all their secrets, except then….”

        He stops there, staring at the man, who looks back at him expressionlessly. He knows he is wrong there – well, not _entirely_ , he’s never _entirely_ wrong – but he’s not quite right either. Because the man’s anger at his story is too terrifying to not be genuine, so it’s not that he wants the world to know.

        “Oh,” he says again. He’s not usually this inarticulate, but Silva does have a way of bringing out both the worst and best qualities of him, he thinks. This is not the time to be embarrassed by it though, not when he’s naked and at the complete mercy of someone who has made no secret of wanting to murder him, except that is not just it. Not exactly. “You didn’t care if the public knew what MI6 had done.”

        “Why would I?” Silva sneers dismissively. “They’re all like you, just little, naïve people who do not understand what the world is about. They go about their lives, thinking that what they do matters when at any moment, their country would give them up if it would mean a minute more of _peace_. Why would-”

        “But that’s not entirely true either,” he interrupts. His heart is beating fast again, and he knows he’s crossing a line, but this might be his only opportunity to truly understand what Silva is all about. “You wanted someone to know. You wanted someone to understand.” He closes his eyes, not wanting to look at the man as he plunges straight off the cliff, but this… _this_ is his loose end, this is his need to understand why he had been allowed to live when there seemed to be no _purpose_ to it. “You wanted me to figure out what happened to you.”

        “No.” Silva’s voice is too casual, too indifferent. “You think too highly of yourself, Mr. Lyon.”

        Q shakes his head. Not because Silva isn’t right; arrogance has always been one of his worst personality flaws, but at least he accepts his faults. It is time that someone made sure that Silva does the same. “You said that the one thing in this world you cannot stand is a liar, Mr. Silva. Surely that has to include yourself?”

        “You might want to think carefully about your words before you say something you regret,” Silva warns, casting Q a bitter look. Q easily ignores the threat though, considering instead the possibility that perhaps Silva has never been able to live with himself either. Why else would he have done away with Tiago Rodriguez? Well, besides the fact that it is convenient to revenge plots, but whether he is Rodriguez or Raoul Silva, the man is likely capable of leaving no trace of himself behind. It is only when he wants to send a message that he leaves something of himself behind, waiting to see who is reckless enough to give in.

        Reckless is not one of the words that Q would use to describe himself, although others might, particularly when considering his recent behavior. But for his single-minded devotion to the story, he rarely finds it necessary to put himself in danger. Especially in modern times, where so much information can be accessed with a computer, he is usually able to avoid any physical harm. Silva is the first time, the first _person_ , that he has risked everything for, and he will be damned if he will allow himself to be intimidated now.

        “I rather think that given my current circumstances, if I have something to say I should probably say it now, seeing how I might not have another opportunity to do so,” he declares with far more confidence than he thought possible. Before Silva can cut him off with a hand wrapped around his throat or something more deadly, he pushes forward. “Paris Carver.”

        “What about her?”

        The dismissive tone sends a shiver of anger through him, one that Silva is intelligent enough not to mistake for fear. He will not allow the man to make her death _meaningless_ , especially when she did not deserve what happened. “Your other victims were all messages to MI6. But she had no connection to them; her only connection was to me. Despite your undeniable disregard for human life, every murder that you committed did have a purpose. But if her death has no significance to MI6, then what would be the point unless it was a message for me? You wanted me to understand, Mr. Silva. You wanted me to have a reason to dig deeper, to take even more risks than I already was with your little puzzles and games. You act as if it was to scare me off, but someone who understands people as well as you do must have known that it would only force me to look harder. And so I found Tiago Rodriguez. I found _you_.”

        Silva laughs. “Yes, I suppose you did. Congratulations, Mr. Lyon. You found yourself a dead man.” Then the man is getting to his feet, the pages of Q’s story scattering to the floor. If he was not tied down so, he would be racing to pick them up and put them back into some semblance of order, but all he can do is flatten himself against the headboard as best he can as Silva climbs on top of him. Cold hands run from his shoulders to his waist, lingering there as Silva leans in close to whisper into his chest, “I had intended to die with her, you realize. After I killed her, I planned to put a bullet in my own head. Then they couldn’t deny it anymore, couldn’t deny that they had made a mistake when they had given me away. She was my life for so many years, and then she was my death, and I didn’t think there was anything else to care for once I had taken her away from this wretched world.”

        Q sucks in a breath, the rise of his chest bringing him just that much closer to Silva. “What changed your mind?”

        Another soft laugh, and the despair is so palpable as to almost make Q choke. “I suppose I wanted to see you again.”

        The answer is thrown out so casually that it takes Q a moment to understand. Then his heart is racing because not only does he understand that this is as close to a confession as Silva is capable of, but it is also the one thing in the world he has ever wanted to hear, one that fills him with so much dread that he cannot speak for a long moment. But suddenly it is clear that as unduly fascinated ( _obsessed_ )by the man as he has been, the feeling was not completely one-sided. No, Silva is just as incapable of letting him go as he is with Silva, so rather than reply with a witty one-liner and diminish this admission, he whispers, “Why? What could you possibly have expected from me? I cannot absolve you of your sins. I cannot help justify what you have done. You’re a murderer.”

        “I killed for my country. No one minded then, and certainly no one called me a murderer. I’ve killed many more people since. Yet here you are.”

        “Here I am,” he agrees, and when Raoul finally looks up, it is his turn to tip forward so that he can capture the man’s lips with his, forcing them into a desperate kiss. He allows Raoul to swallow his words but mostly his confession that he does mind what Raoul has done because he hates it, _hates_ that the bastard has killed good people, bad people, guilty people, innocent people. So he allows Raoul to take his shame as well, that while he minds so very much, he _cannot stop this_ , he cannot stop from wanting the other man to consume him until there is nothing left.

        They break apart only long enough for Raoul to pull off his clothes, the immaculately pressed suit getting rather wrinkled in his haste to strip it off. Previous lovers have complained that Q is impatient, and he is even more impatient now with his hands bound so that he cannot touch, can only _be_ touched, although he makes up for it by wrapping one leg around Raoul’s bare waist and dragging him close. The other man looks amused but allows himself to be tugged forward, before patiently taking hold of Q’s lanky limb to press a kiss against his ankle, and then lowering it back down. Once Raoul settles himself down firmly, the heavy, unyielding weight pressing him down, from an unknown place a familiar knife is pulled.

        “Where the hell were you keeping that?” Q blurts out, not caring that it completely kills the mood, and the bastard just laughs and kisses him again. Unappeased, Q bites him in the retaliation, and the tang of blood lingers on his tongue.

        Raoul’s eyes glint at that, and wordlessly he swipes Q’s glasses, tossing them carelessly to the side. Any protests about scratches on the lens are quickly consumed by another hard kiss, and then a blindfold is slipped on, encasing him in darkness. He jerks when the cold blade scrapes against his torso, but then he’s being shushed like a naughty child, an arm as unyielding as iron pushed against his stomach.

        The bastard alternates between cold blade and warm touch and hot mouth, his motions with the former precise and the latter two sloppy with desire. There’s no predictability to the motions, no way of preparing himself for what is to come next, so he responds with desperate writhing whenever it’s not the knife. Broad, swirling patterns are drawn into his skin again with exceeding care, and tinier hatch marks are added in the shallow grooves that are left behind. When fingers or lips drag along them Q arches. Any shame that he might feel at giving in so completely melts away when Raoul hums with delighted approval.

        He doesn’t bleed (much) but it hurts, it _hurts_ quite a lot, actually, but the pain is balanced by a thrill of the unknown. Still, eventually Raoul realizes that his whimpers are not just from arousal, and then he hears the sound of the knife joining his glasses. Perhaps he should complain about that as well, at the possibility of his glasses being further ruined by an unpitying blade, but it’s quickly lost when Raoul turns his full attentions on Q and fuck, fuck, _fuck_ -

        Not only is Q impatient, but he can be loud when it pleases him. It pleases him very much right now, as Raoul touches him in all the right places, as if they have been doing this together for all their lives. He’s falling apart so quickly, but he’s not the only one, and that just heightens his pleasure even more. He might not be able to see the other man, but it’s not just his own movements that are punctuated by an overwhelming desire for more. It’s not just _his_ groans and the occasional frantic wail that echoes through the room.

        Everything has come down to this, to what Raoul is doing to his body. Every inch of his skin seems to thrum with energy as he tries to get as close as he possibly can, his want mirrored beautifully by the other man. He starts babbling when the bastard finally deigns to take him properly, and screams when Raoul pushes him clear off the edge. And god, how he wants to dig his fingers into that broad back to leave some marks of his own, how he wants to pull himself up enough to bite the man’s shoulder, how he _wants_ this to _never end_ because even though it’s too much, too goddamn much, it’s also not _nearly_ enough.

        It will never be enough, and as Raoul whispers something that sounds very much like adoration into his ear, it is no wonder that he closes his eyes behind the dark cloth and lets himself pass out from the blissful exhilaration.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Q stirs when he feels the swipe of a cloth against his belly, wiping him clean. He starts to murmur soft thanks as he turns onto his right side because he’s never enjoyed sleeping on his back, but his movement is greatly impeded by his bound wrists and ankles._
> 
> _Needless to say, this wakes him up in quite a hurry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to ReadByRain15 for the amazing beta-work.

        Q stirs when he feels the swipe of a cloth against his belly, wiping him clean. He starts to murmur soft thanks as he turns onto his right side because he’s never enjoyed sleeping on his back, but his movement is greatly impeded by his bound wrists and ankles.

        Needless to say, this wakes him up in quite a hurry.

        It’s hard to see without his glasses, which have not been returned despite the removal of the blindfold, but he thinks Raoul is smiling fondly at him upon noticing that he is awake. The fondness would be better appreciated if not for the dawning realization that not only is he still trussed up and naked, but that he is no longer lying on fine silk. Instead, there is only cold plastic sheeting beneath him, and when he starts to shake, it’s not only from the cold.

        “Finally awake, dear boy?” If Raoul notices his shudder (and he surely must), he doesn’t comment on it. The man instead gifts him with a languid kiss that takes his breath clear away, before asking affectionately, “Do you usually sleep this much, or did I overexert you with our enthusiasm? I must say, back in my day, the youth had much better stamina.”

        “And I suppose back in your day, you also had to walk uphill both to school and back,” he grumbles, having developed a visceral hatred for the ‘back in my day’ stories that everyone seems compelled to share with him thanks to his looking barely out of puberty. The hatred is quickly overwhelmed by terror, a dread that cannot be dispelled by the cheerful laugh. After all, who knows if the cheer is due to his biting comment or the bastard’s anticipation for slicing him open? He clears his throat, a gesture that nearly has him gagging because a desperate, animalistic panic is setting in as Raoul starts to lay out a veritable assortment of knives. “Raoul….”

        This earns him a look that is almost bewildered. Q suspects that no one has ever called the man by his newly given name, probably because no one has ever become intimate enough to feel that they have the right. Q is not sure he has the right either, but the name has already slipped out and there’s no taking it back, so all he can do is press forward. “I thought….”

        He doesn’t get much farther than that, his voice trailing off as he realizes how silly and naïve he is being. Of course what just happened does not change anything, of course just because the man was willing to indulge him with sex does not mean he is going to be merciful. But despite his prior, almost passive acceptance of the possibility of his death, now he rebels at the grisly prospect. “I don’t actually want to die.”

        Raoul goes still. He stays just far enough that Q cannot see his expression, and that is terrifying too, the idea of trying to plead for his life with someone he cannot read. He has no idea of how to react most effectively, how to best present his case, when he does not know how to appeal to the man.

        Except perhaps he does. Of everyone in the world, he is probably the one person in the world with even the tiniest of understanding of Raoul Silva. Others might have known Tiago Rodriguez, but only he knows Raoul as someone more than a psychopathic serial killer.

        But just because there is something more does not translate to Raoul _not_ being a psychopathic serial killer too, a fact that is demonstrated when Silva finally says, “It’s not hard.” There’s something absurdly sympathetic in his words, as if they are talking about something normal like learning how to ride a bicycle rather than the abrupt and early termination of his life. “It’s just a matter of stopping.”

        “But still,” he insists. “I don’t want to.”

        Raoul could point out that if that was the case, why did he come here, and Q would have to concede the point. The man has never been subtle about his plans for Q, and they both knew that accepting that final invitation was the equivalent of signing his own death warrant. At the same time, that doesn’t mean Q had _wanted_ to die. Yes, he had gone along with this, but that was because they had unfinished business, the two of them. It is less that he had lingering questions and more that Raoul had answers, an answer to the boredom that has plagued him his whole life. When he is with Raoul, he feels like he has a purpose, rather than having to spend his entire life chasing a cause. He is not trite enough to label it _love_ (obsession would be a much better term), but it might be the closest he has ever come to feeling such a thing, and he doesn’t think he is the only one.

        That is why he _is_ surprised by Raoul’s actions, and perhaps a little disappointed. He cannot ask that the man change who he is (he does not want that in any case), but he also should not _have_ to ask for this.

        Raoul must know it as well, so rather than put the blame on Q where it so rightfully belongs, he says simply, “We all do, eventually.”

        “Eventually doesn’t mean right now,” he points out. He refrains from adding that it is not just about him ending, but about _them_. Because there is a them, whether they like it or not, a mutual fascination that does not make sense. But it is a fascination that kept Raoul from killing himself upon completing his revenge on Mansfield, and it is what brought Q here when doing so amounted to suicide. Raoul chose to risk the pain of living while Q risked the finality of death, and surely that must mean something to both of them?

        “We seem to be at an impasse then.” Raoul goes silent, and again Q wishes he could see the man, see what he is thinking. Instead all he sees is blurred, abstract shapes that can mean anything, which might be fitting in a way. He’s still trying to make something out of nothing when the man says (pleads), “Give me a reason then.”

        “A reason?” he repeats numbly. Is Raoul truly suggesting that he explain himself in words when his actions have been more than clear? Q chokes out a laugh (a pitiful thing that sounds more like a broken sob) because it should be easy; he’s made his life about the words, yet when his life is on the line, he can come up with nothing. He can come up with nothing, except this. “ _Because_.”

        When all he gets is silence, Q gives Raoul an irritated look, silently ordering the man to come close. Considering how he is in no position to be making demands, it’s a little reassuring when Raoul lets out a sharp laugh but obeys. He’s finally close enough for Q to see that there is no humor in those dark eyes, and after a slight hesitation, he curves up to bridge the remaining distance between them. The stress on his back is more than a little painful, but it is the farthest thing from his mind as he whispers his reason into Raoul’s ear.

        Immediately the man pulls back, although he has the decency to stay within Q’s severely limited eyesight. While Q might be able to see, there is nothing _to_ see, and he can do nothing as Raoul’s left hand begins to pet his hair. It’s a soothing gesture, but like so many other things the bastard has done, it is also just a distraction. So there is no surprise when the right hand wraps around his neck, crushing and agonizing as it squeezes the breath from him.

        His lips open involuntarily, trying desperately to get oxygen in, but then Raoul’s mouth is on his and the bastard is taking his last breath, taking everything that is left of him, until finally, _finally_ , there is nothing left to take.

* * *

        “Is it him?” Bond growls. The anger is hollow though, compared to the anxiety of their latest find. There had been no spiteful taunt from Silva this time, no mocking call informing them that they were once again too late. The corpse had been found purely by accident, although Bond has no doubt that this ‘accident’ was fully planned. Silva probably left the body there on purpose, relying on someone finding it and dealing with the aftermath.

        But that is not the only difference this time. When he’d received the call, the first thing Bond had done was try to reach Lyon, phoning him personally before moving onto Eve Moneypenny and Gareth Mallory. Lyon of course did not answer, and the other two had no idea where he was, a sign of the worst. Bond wasn’t surprised, considering how that damn journalist seemed to take a special joy from risking his goddamn neck, but he wasn’t looking forward to having his suspicions confirmed.

        “Fuck,” was all Wade said in response. The American looks three shades too pale, as if he’d just seen a ghost. “Go see for yourself. Son of a bitch,” he adds under his breath, and staggers away as quick as he can.

        Bond does, and his heart drops when he sees the familiar mop of dark hair and pale skin. “Shit,” he mutters, cursing not just Silva but Lyon as well. The fucking _idiot_ , thinking he was invincible when everyone else had died, but once he gets close enough he realizes a few things.

        First and foremost, it is not John Lyon. The similarities start and end at the hair and skin, but for someone who has spent as much time staring at Lyon – not that the headstrong brat had ever noticed it, too occupied by whatever story he was investigating – the differences are quickly apparent. The body is too tall and too broad, and although the face is frozen in agony, it obviously lacks Lyon’s more gentle features or those dark red lips which Bond had once wanted to taste.

        Bond knows that he will never be indulging in that now. Because the second thing that he notices is that the corpse lacks Silva’s signature artistic flourish. It’s hard to tell with all the blood, but once he focuses in on the carvings he realizes that they are words. And not just any words, but an entire article about Silva himself, with a distinctive voice that leaves him no doubt of who the author is.

        It may not be Lyon who is lying on the ground, but Bond has a feeling that the story that has been left behind here may very well be the young man’s last.

* * *

        Q wakes up. He quickly comes to the following three conclusions.

  1.        He is alone, as even without his glasses, he can see that there is no one else in this room.
  2.        Eve is going to be very disappointed with him, as he is fairly certain that he will be missing all their future dinner plans (Mallory probably less so, given the amount of trouble he has caused lately).
  3.        He hopes that he does not get too seasick, as the vomit will be a pain to get out of the silk sheets.



         “Well,” he says quietly, and immediately regrets it as his mouth feels dry and disgusting. He is grateful that he does not have a headache, as that could have had regretful consequences when combined with the gentle swaying of the ship. When he glances up at the small bedside table next to him, he can see his glasses sitting there, but he makes no movement to pick them up. Instead, he continues to lie there, staring at the wall just beyond, and wondering how on earth he got here.

        By that, he does not mean how he got here _physically_. He does not know what happened after Raoul had so impolitely tried to strangle him ( _again_ ), but he can make an educated guess. While he is not tied to the bed, the room is very much Raoul’s, down to the red silk sheets and the lingering scent of expensive cologne. So he knows who brought him here, even if he is not entirely sure where “here” is, but he does not know why.

        The most efficient way of finding out would be to stand, to find the man and simply ask. He doesn’t. Instead, he continues to lie there for a long while, appreciating that he is dressed in soft pajamas while staring at the wall that looks to be a fine, expensive wood (because everything that Raoul likes seems to be expensive). He’s not used to being so indolent, but he’s also not used to being so surprised by waking up. He hadn’t really allowed himself to expect this, which means he has a newfound appreciation for every breath that he takes in, an appreciation that he is able to do so at all.

        He cannot lie there forever, so once his stomach has settled a bit, he slowly pushes himself up into a seated position. He pauses again as his head sways from the movement, cursing the bastard under his breath as he tries to get the world to stand still. Q has always been a bit prone to seasickness, although it’s nothing compared to the panic attacks he suffers from flying, and it’s further complicated by the string of sleepless nights punctuated by involuntary unconsciousness. But eventually he is able to stand, to get his glasses on and let everything swim back into focus.

        A part of him wants to linger still, to take in the fine furniture and the bland food that has been left for him (nobody could accuse Raoul of being an inattentive host). But the part of him that wants something more than a gentle, boring life is far greater, so he strides through the cabin and to the door, which is unlocked. Upon opening it, he’s immediately hit by a spray of salt water and cold air. They’re both so strong that it nearly sends him flying back into the room, but he fights past it and towards the helm of the ship, where Raoul awaits.

        “So this is how you got to London?” he asks dryly (both figuratively and literally, the words barely more than a rasp) before the door has even closed. Raoul turns and a slow, lazy smile dances across his lips as he gestures Q closer. Q of course goes, and is rewarded with a peck on the forehead and a cup of water, which he takes.

        “Don’t gulp, swallow slowly,” Raoul instructs, and Q shoots him an irate look at being lectured on the obvious. The man immediately holds up his hands in mocking surrender and, while Q takes small sips, answers his original question. “I purchased this boat more recently, actually. Yes, _purchased_ ,” he emphasizes when Q looks doubtful. “As you may have already guessed, one must have sufficient funds before starting a war with her Majesty’s secret service.”

        “This purchase speaks more to long-term plans, which you yourself admitted you did not have,” he remarks, before taking another sip.

        Raoul shrugs. “I also like to be prepared. Who would have known that my revenge would go so well? It turns out I saved quite a bit more than I needed.”

        “How nice for you.”

        “Yes, it is very nice.” They lapse into an awkward silence then, watching the vast expanse of ocean before them. Or at least Q watches the ocean while Raoul watches him, and when he shivers ever so slightly from the cold (because the thin pajamas and bare feet are decidedly inadequate), an oversized suit jacket is thrown over his shoulders. His fingers dart out to keep it from falling to the floor, where they meet Raoul’s. As always, those large hands are cold as ice, even more so than when they were digging into his throat, and he closes his eyes as he remembers exactly what he had said.

        He had wanted to tell Raoul that it was because he fascinates the man. Because he had come to him despite his horror at what the man has done and the inescapable knowledge of what Raoul had in store him. Because he would follow the man wherever he went, desperate for more because Raoul Silva is an opportunity, a representation of the life he thought he could never have. He’d always been proud of the work he had done, but at the same time, it hadn’t felt enough. Because the people who were reading his writings didn’t truly grasp what went into them, didn’t understand the challenges he had faced to bring them the story. But Raoul… Raoul is both a challenge and appreciative, and the combination was not only intoxicating but fascinating beyond belief. It had given him a purpose beyond satisfying himself, a purpose he had not known he was looking for until he’d found it.

        Except then he had realized that all those things, all those reasons… they were merely symptoms of their twisted reality. Which meant there was only one thing left that he could say.

        _Because I’m yours._

        And he is. That doesn’t mean, however, that Q is blind to what Raoul is. He will not forgive the man for the lives that have been taken, and will in fact always hate that aspect of him. He will not cave into Raoul’s every whim, every twisted desire. He is obsessed, he cannot deny that now, cannot deny that he wants nothing more than to be by the man’s side. But that doesn’t mean he will allow himself to be used. His fixation with Raoul is with the challenge he presents, not to be his puppet. The distinction is so fine that Q would not blame the rest of the world for mistaking his motives as something that it is not, but that is fine. Because even if they do not understand, it is clear that Raoul does. That is all Q can ask for.

        That is all he can ever _want_.

        Yet still, there is some doubt, which is why he says abruptly, “You once told me that no matter how special a person thinks they are, they have to die eventually.” He doesn’t know why he is raising this now, especially since the last thing he should be doing is reminding a murderer of how disposable people are. But it is suddenly the most important thing in the world, and he has never been good at shying away from the ugly truth.

        Raoul lets out a sigh, leaning in close so that his breath tickles Q’s neck. He stands still though, waiting stubbornly for a response even if he is not sure he will like it. “I did, dear boy. What of it?”

        “One day you’ll get bored of me. One day you won’t think I’m special anymore.”

        “No,” Raoul replies immediately, pressing a kiss into his hair as his grip turns possessive, like he is afraid that Q will slip out of his grasp. “No. Not you. _Never_ you.”

        It’s so twisted and wrong, but Q cannot bring himself to care. Or rather, he does, but it’s no comparison to everything else that he wants. He leans back into the man’s broad chest, finding comfort in both the warmth (and it is warm, unlike Raoul’s cold, cold, _cold_ hands) and the validation that comes with it. He’s nearly drifted off again when Raoul asks, “And what about you? What are you going to do now?”

        Q resists the urge to sigh, to point out that that a silly question, given that he is here now. Instead, he turns and looks up at Raoul, at dark eyes that once promised him and countless others nothing except death. What he sees now is what had initially drawn him to the story, had convinced him that there was something more than just an unfeeling killer who wanted to destroy others. Because there is the person, who had been through more agonies than the ordinary person could dream of, and had come out of it stronger than before. Stronger yet at the same time absolutely broken, to the point that the man had truly thought there would be nothing left once he had accomplished his revenge. But it seems that Q is not the only person who has found another reason to live, except while Q had been willing to give up his life for Raoul, Raoul had been willing to risk _living_ for Q. And that is something that he cannot walk away from, especially now.

        “What I’ve always done,” he answers, before getting up on his tip-toes to lightly kiss Raoul on the cheek. “I’m going to follow the story.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has commented, enjoyed, and read this story. I appreciate it all, truly.
> 
> Original prompt:  
> Serial killer AU with Silva the maniac and Q - a young journalist who sticks his nose where he shouldn't. Playing a detective and trying to investigate things on his own, Q gets access to a new Silva's crime scene. What he didn't expect to find there is Silva himself (who returned to fetch some evidence he left in a hurry?). Q is beyond scared but madly facinated at the same time and Silva is kinda flattered by such an admiration. May be some knifeplay, dubcon (but no noncon) and a happy end.

**Author's Note:**

> My goal is for the usual Thursday update schedule, barring the need for substantial rewrites and possibly one missed update when I'm on vacation. In the meantime, if you’re interested in my shorter ficlets, deleted scenes, and babbling about writing (or lack thereof), I can be found at http://pikachumaniac.tumblr.com/.


End file.
